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takamikeiigos · 3 years

Note

Okay I know made an ask already like 2 days ago🙄 but what if hawks s/o had to fake their death on a mission for like a month or 2😮‍💨 and when they come back the first thing they do is look for hawks even though they’re tired, beaten and look like complete shit😩😩 I’m just such a sucker for these kind of tropes !!!

Also how’s ur day been :))

ayo i got you fam!!!

this was legit all i could think of for like 3 days so i hope it's okay!!

Title: "You Came Back to Me"

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (for now)

Relationships: Hawks x Reader

Tags: temporary character death, violence, drinking as a coping mechanism (minor on hawk's part), emesis

Word Count: 2.8k

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3

You look up at the villain who currently has you pinned to the floor, your ragged breaths leaving your mouth with every rise and fall of your chest.

His vibrant green eyes are piercing as they stare down at you, his expression wicked and merciless as he presses his foot harder against your throat as a warning.

"Here are your options, darlin'," he pulls his foot away, instead opting to sit back on his haunches. He brushes your hair from your face and rests his hand on your cheek. It makes you flinch and your breath hitch.

"You either find a way to dissappear, or I'll track down that precious little birdy of yours and take his wings for myself."

○ ○ ○

- three weeks prior -

"Let me come with you. Please."

"Kei.." you say softly as you back the rest of your necessities in your bag, finally turning to look at him.

He's on edge, you can tell by his posture. His wings are drawn tight to his back, but his feathers are puffed out. It reminds you of how hair stands on end and goosebumps make them selves known under fear and stress.

"You know I can't.."

"This is too much for one person to handle." His arms are folded across his chest now as he leans against the doorframe of your shared bedroom.

"You don't think I can handle myself?" The words leave your mouth sounding offended, and he instantly deflates.

"That's not what I meant. If you didn't know what you were doing, you wouldn't be working for one of the top agencies in Japan." Keigo steps forward, now in your space, and you can see a faint trace of fear flicker across his face. "I just.. this man is very dangerous, y/n. And if anything happens.."

"Hey. It'll be okay. It'll only be a month and I'll be home before you know it. I won't let anything happen, I promise." Your hand falls against his cheek and he nuzzles into it, both of his hands coming to rest against your own.

"You promise?" he asks quietly, needing one more confirmation that you'll be home and safe in a couple weeks.

"I promise."

○ ○ ○

"Have you made your mind up, sweetheart?" Kimura, the man who has had the utmost pleasure in beating you within an inch of your life, asks. He slams you against the brick wall of the alleyway one more time for good measure, his hand wrapped firmly around your throat.

"Please.." you gasp out, your hands coming to wrap around his wrist, trying to relieve the pressure against your larynx. "P-please promise me you won't hurt him, that you w-wont lay a hand on him.."

He chuckles darkly, tossing you aside onto the cold, dirty floor of the alleyway.

Your vision is blurring, slowly darkening at the edges, but you manage to see him move a few feet away, bending down to pick something up off the ground. You blink sluggishly and suddenly he's in your space once more, holding the object, which you soon realize is your phone, in your face.

"Go ahead, songbird. Give him one last goodbye."

You cringe at the abuse of the nickname that you hold so dear, but weakly reach out and take your phone from his hand, Hawks' number already dialed.

All you had to do was hit send and that would be it.

You close your eyes and rest your head against the brick wall, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You can feel tears burning as they make themselves known, clinging to your eyelashes and not yet falling to your cheeks. You blame it on the amount of pain you're in, but you know the true reason is because you're absolutely terrified.

You press send.

As it rings you notice Kimura bringing out his own phone, holding it up and aiming it in your direction.

What a sick bastard.

"Baby bird!" Keigo's voice comes cheerfully from the other line. Though it warms and calms your senses, it still makes you sad knowing that he's completely oblivious to what's about to come.

"H-Hey, Kei.." you try your best to keep your voice steady, but the damage from excessive force to your throat is unforgiving and the words leave your mouth sounding raspy and distant.

"Y/n, where are you?" Keigo's voice drops an octave and you can tell his worry has set in, which was exactly what you wanted to avoid.

"I'm okay, just uh," you pause mid-sentence, your throat tightening around the words as tears threaten to spill again, "just got knocked around a lil bit."

Your laugh comes out bitter. You hate the sound of it.

"Y/n. Tell. Me. Where. You. A-"

"Kei, listen. I need you to know how much I.." your voice betrays you and cracks, and you suddenly find that you can't fight the overwhelming fear and sadness coming over you. You weakly bring a hand up to wipe at your battered cheeks, tears continuing to fall and mix with the grime and blood that covers your skin.

You try again to steel yourself, another deep breath falling from your lips shakily, making your lungs rattle. It's becoming harder each second to keep your eyes open and your mind focused, but if you make it through this one phone call, you know you'll be able to rest easy.

"I need you t'know how much I love you. 'N that everything's g'nna be fine. That you'll be okay. And to not c-"

Suddenly a gunshot rings out and your whole world stands still for a split second, before turning completely sideways.

You register warmth blossoming over your abdomen, spreading and soaking your hero uniform. You can hear Keigo frantically yelling from where your phone slipped from your hand and landed on the concrete next to your head. And the last thing you see is Kimura holstering his gun with one hand, tapping away on his phone with the other.

"What a shitty ending for a hero, don't you think?" Kimura grins down at you.

Yeah. What a shitty ending for a hero.

○ ○ ○

The quiet trickle of water finds its way to your ears, and the feeling of something cold and damp against your forehead is a soothing contrast to how hot your body feels.

Opening your eyes feels as though it takes half of whatever strength you have left, and your vision swims. Suddenly hit with a wave a nausea, you lean over and vomit over the edge of the bed you're laying on. Luckily there's a bucket on the floor, and you assume it was placed there for a reason.

That someone placed it there.

In a panic you sit up, your wounds pulling tight and your body protesting. Your vision swims again and it takes you a few moments to ground yourself.

"Ma'am, please don't move too fast. You'll re-open your wounds and you're already in bad shape," a quiet voice projects throughout the room. You look up and notice an older man, probably in his sixties, sitting in a chair next to the bed you're currently occupying.

"Who are you? Where's Kimura?" You grit out, grabbing the edge of the blankets and tossing them off of you. The man in front of you is ready for your attempt at escape and he places steady hands on your shoulders, pushing you back onto the bed.

"Please! My name is Daichi Tanaka, I am a doctor! I found you in an alleyway near Higashiosaka. I would have taken you to a hospital but you begged me not to," the man pleads, his hands persistent on your shoulders.

You glare at him momentarily, before relaxing back onto the bed, still weary of his intentions.

"Kimura? Is that the name of the person who did this to you?" The man - Tanaka - asks hesitantly.

You ignore his question in favor for asking your own, "How long have I been out?"

Tanaka stares at at you, seeming to contemplate answering, but you figure he finally realizes you aren't taking any shit because his answer comes out with a sigh.

"A little over a week. You've been in and out, your fever finally broke this morning."

Over a week. You've been out for over a week and you don't know where you are, where Kimura went, and where Keigo-

Keigo.

It all comes crashing back to you and you lie back, your hands resting over your eyes.

Tanaka seems to have been reading your mind, because he pulls your phone from the nightstand next to you and passes it over.

"I wiped as much blood from it as I could. You have many new notifications and quite a few missed calls. I wasn't able to unlock it to call anyone, but it seems there are many people worried about you." Tanaka stands then, making his way toward the bedroom door.

"I will give you some privacy for now, but expect me to be back in twenty minutes to check up on you."

With that, Tanaka leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You stare down at your phone, the screen cracked and a few specs of blood and dirt tucked into its crevices. You type your pin in and pull your notifications up, Keigo's name amongst others filling the screen.

You don't realize you're crying until a small hiccup forces its way from your mouth, your cheeks wet with tears.

You notice a voice-mail from him, and though you know it's only going to make you more upset, you force yourself to open it to make sure he's okay.

His voice floods the room and it immediately breaks your heart at how wrecked he sounds. You can tell he's been crying by how gravelly his voice sounds as the message plays out.

"You know," Keigo laughs bitterly over the phone, "I punched Ryosetsu in the face for letting you go on this mission alone. Gave 'im a real nice shiner on your behalf."

The message goes quiet and you can hear what sounds like a glass bottle being opened in the background, Keigo's quiet sniffles also making themselves known.

"Fuck, y/n. They didnt even.. they didnt even find your body. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, huh?

"They wouldn't even let me anywhere near the scene, I had to sit back at the office while they kept me informed. He said there was uh.." you assume Keigo pauses to take a swig of whatever he's drinking based off the tink of the glass bottle, "heh, he said there's a low chance you're even alive because there was so much blood. Fuck."

You grimace at how blunt he is with the statement and how distant his voice sounds. You can only hope that he hasn't been drinking as often as your thoughts are telling you.

"Please come back to me," he whimpers over the message, and a new wave of tears fall down your cheeks. "Please.. I can't do this without you."

○ ○ ○

A few days pass.

Tanaka refuses to take any of your shit.

He most definitely refuses to let you leave until you had one more solid meal in you, and one more day of rest.

You're still a little weak, bruises and abrasions littering your skin ( not to mention the nasty bullet wound Tanaka managed to sew up for you ) but you finally have enough strength to stand and walk on your own.

He pleads with you to stay one more day, just to ensure you're strong enough to be by yourself, but you shake your head and bow before him.

"Thank you, Mr. Tanaka, but I have to keep moving. It might be unsafe for you if I stay."

So instead he writes down his phone number on a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to you, patting your hand briefly.

"You're a strong one, just be sure to take care of yourself." He smiles kindly at you, and you nod before taking your leave.

○ ○ ○

Days go by as you hop around from town to town, only stopping for food and rest.

It's been a little over two weeks since you made the decision to distance yourself to ensure the safety of your friends and Keigo, and nearly two months since you were assigned the mission. While you knew faking your death was the only way to keep people from asking too many questions about why you suddenly disappeared, you weren't expecting to actually get shot and almost die.

You keep up with the recent events as best as you can, continuously watching news coverage and especially keeping tabs on Keigo's agency.

Your breath catches in your throat one day while you're moving through a rural seaside town, large red wings and a familiar hero uniform immediately catching your attention.

A flood of emotions run through you and it takes everything in you to not run up to him and hold him. But the fear of Kimura's prying eyes hold you back, and you steadily remind yourself that you're doing this to protect him.

You keep your distance and watch his every move. He's staring down at his phone for a while and after a few moments it rings. He brings it to his ear and though you can't hear what he's saying, it must be something important.

Because soon enough his wings are spread out and he's taking flight into the afternoon sky.

○ ○ ○

'Pro-Hero Hawks makes appearance in. Tanabe - finds lead on hero killer'

'Hanamatsu hero case still under investigation'

'Top Hero Agency in Japan pursuing hero killer - Kimura'

The news headlines on your phone cause your blood to run cold. How foolish of you to think Keigo would let this go so easily.

To think he wouldn't trace every piece of evidence and go to the ends of the earth to take down someone who hurt you.

○ ○ ○

You keep tabs on him as best you can. It begins to feel like you're stalking him, in a weird way, but you'll be damned if you did all of this just to put his safety on the line.

Keigo stays in Tanabe for the time being, the week passing by in a blur as you track his movements.

You figure Kimura went into hiding since his criminal activity fell flat after your encounter with him, but Keigo is as persistent as he's ever been, nitpicking every lead that comes his way.

A few days later word gets out that Kimura has been spotted in the village of Hidakagawa, just thirty minutes northwest of Tanabe.

You only hope you can get there before Keigo does.

○ ○ ○

Hidakagawa is exactly what you pictured, a perfect little town for a low-life criminal to live under the radar.

Its quiet and rural, its occupants living their lives happily tucked away from the bustling life of the city.

A few squad cars rush past you as you look at the map you have pulled up on your phone. It seems a little out of character for such a small town, so you push yourself forward and follow them.

○ ○ ○

When you finally catch up to the squad cars, the scene before you makes your hair stand on end.

Keigo has Kimura pinned to the ground, battered and bruised, his fist closed around a one of his feathers that he's currently wielding as a blade. A few dozen officers surround the scene, guns drawn and on edge.

Kimura smirks up at him and whatever he says is out of earshot, but its enough to piss Keigo off and send him into a frenzy.

"Kei, stop!" You find yourself yelling shakily. You finally manage to push through the barricade of officers and it's then that Keigo makes eye contact with you, his closed fist halted in the air.

Kimura takes the split second of distraction to knock the blade from Keigo's hand, flipping their position so the winged hero is pinned to the floor of the temple. He pulls out his gun and cocks it, pressing it to Keigo's forehead.

All the while Keigo keeps his eyes on you.

"I thought I told you to stay away, little one," Kimura grits out, wiping a trail of blood from his mouth, "Now it looks like your little hawk is about to lose his wings, all because someone can't listen."

You move on impulse when Kimura turns his attention back to Keigo, and you grab the handgun from the officer closest to you.

You waste no time in firing a bullet, hitting Kimura right in the temple. But as it strikes he squeezes the trigger of his own gun on impulse, which is still trained on Keigo, a second round going off.

- to be continued -

tbh i was super nervous to post this bc im so new to the fandom but here we go!!

also i just made up random characters bc im not quite caught up with the manga, and also picked random spots in japan that i know absolutely nothing about

rip to my writing skills lmfao

♡ ky

#im terrified to post this lmaooo #hawks x reader #bnha hawks #mha hawks #mha keigo takami #bnha takami keigo #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #hawks #ky writes #ky answers #fanfiction #you came back to me

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

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amiedala · 3 years

Text

Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 1: INTO THE STARS

Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)

Warnings: light descriptions of violence

Summary: Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

Or, a slow burn love story across the stars featuring you, Din, and your little green baby. With love, angst, lust, and everything in between following you across the galaxy.*this deviates from canon for the most part, the plot begins at the very end of season 1 and will deviate for about half of season 2! there is LOTS planned for this (i already have 19k words written & will be posting regularly) so i hope you all enjoy!! <3 muah*

this is 1000000% completely inspired by the incredible behemoth SUPREME Mandalorian fic Rough Day by our lord & savior @no-droids but it will have its entire own plot & more of a slowburn in both love & smut, specifically for suffering long haul romance lovers like myself!

i already have 19k words written & will be ATTEMPTING to post updates regularly (and if i get excited about getting new chapters up, they might come early. i'm gonna try to post Saturday evenings every week, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding <3

hope you enjoy!!! more to come VERY SOON!!!

Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

You met him on Nevarro. You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were supposed to be back in the Mid Rim by that point, long gone from your last mission gone sour. Your ship had broken down and you narrowly escaped a crash landing, and you’d hiked for hours through the unyielding lava fields for the closest town, with nothing but a handful of credits and the clothes on your back. Somehow, miraculously, you were able to grab the last of your water and your mother’s necklace from where it was hanging on the dashboard before the magma had bubbled up and claimed the better half of the old X-wing before you could go back in for more.

“Dank ferrik,” you seethed, and the curse felt alien under your tongue. There was no one out here to hear it but yourself, the lava, and the sulfuric air, anyways, so you grumbled out a few more before the ship fully sank into the magma in front of you.

The ship itself wasn’t a big loss—you’d only gotten it because it was the cheapest after you lost your own to that smuggler, but being stranded on a planet that was so aggressive towards any sort of survival wasn’t the best circumstance in the galaxy. But here you were, stuck, unmoored, anchorless, on a planet not known for anything except its rivers of lava and a bounty hunters’ guild you’d heard about and tried your best to stay away from. That town was the only landmark you had, though, so you begrudgingly trekked across Nevarro’s molten surface in search for any form of civilization.

The sky had started to slip off into darkness, and the small flecks of the other Outer Rim planets glistened lightyears away from where you were hiking when you stumbled over something and nearly fell into what you assumed was a dormant vat of lava. It was only when you scrambled away from the hot pocket of ground that you realized it was a stormtrooper helmet. A stormtrooper helmet with a head still in it. You gasped and skittered away, pushing off the heels of your hands to get upward as fast as you can, not even registering the heat eating through the skin of your palms. You didn’t have a weapon—the old blaster you’d carried for the last few years had been eaten up with the X-Wing—and as your eyes adjusted to a collection of white armor and bodies on the ground, you kicked yourself from not prioritizing the gun over getting out unscathed.

You didn’t scare easy. You grew up on a slowly abandoned Rebel base back on Yavin, and even after your parents’ deaths, you were surrounded by a legion of people who took care of you and taught you how to fight. Really, you were good at getting out of sticky situations that looked too dire to survive—take the crash landing an hour back for example—but you had a giant blind spot of earnestness to believe the people you went into business with were being sincere. That’s how the ship had crashed in the first place, you exchanged a repair of your original starship with providing Alderaanian liquor to a smuggler and his droid back on Dantooine who had both cut and run with it before fully repairing the vitally broken control panel. It was a rookie mistake, which you definitely weren’t, but he had just seemed so earnest in his need for the alcohol, and your fatal flaw was that you always trusted people who needed help. Even to your own detriment.

It had been your downfall back home, and at least twice when you were adventuring through the Outer Rim, and when you narrowly escaped a Deveronian when you had first started out on your own, because you were too close to a scumbag in friend’s clothing who fumbled the bag and left you for dead. He even stole your ship, then, and you had to make a series of sordid deals to get off Polis Massa, let alone find a place where you could crash safely for weeks before you could work up enough credits to get the X-Wing, which was, quite ceremoniously, dead now.

You shivered with the realization that you might be in danger, too. There were so many bodies scattered across this ridge and the next, and a handful of crashed TIE fighters. The sight of them didn’t strike fear into you—they never really had, you were raised in the Alliance and you could outfly the Empire since you were six years old—but they made you feel uneasy. Nevarro didn’t have a Rebel base, and you had never met someone in the Alliance who was from the planet. With the obvious show of Imperial affiliation and the bounty hunters’ guild, Nevarro was seedy enough that it kept you on edge as you walked, hopefully towards a town with people who didn’t want anything more from you than an easy job.

It must have been near dawn when you finally made it to the edge of the town. It was at best shot to all hell and at worst absolutely obliterated. Your heart sank. There were more dead suits of white armor scattered across the dirt and sand. There were helmets on pikes that looked far too fresh. Your hand twitched near your thigh where your blaster was usually strapped. All of this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have left the blaster in the ship. If you were really playing the game of regrets, though, you never should have helped the smuggler. You should have paid the fifteen more credits to get the X-Wing fixed on Tatooine instead. You should have stayed on Yavin after your parents died and shouldn’t have been so earnest to make it on your own and—

“Hey.” The voice came from behind you, and you whipped around so fast your hair fell from where the clasp had been hanging on to nothing but a prayer since your crash landing. You shook it away from your face, eyes squinted at the figure that seemed to materialize behind you. “Where are you from, pretty thing?”

“Coruscant,” you lied through your teeth. The name of the planet you’ve been trying to avoid for years burns a hole through your belly.

“You don’t belong in a place like this.” He stepped into the light, and he wasn’t human. You didn’t know what he was, exactly, but his tone made your skin crawl. You held your ground.

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m looking for a mechanic.”

“I’m a mechanic.” Like hell he was. You clenched your jaw, trying to look menacing. The grease and sweat from the hike there was smeared on your face, your pants had gotten ripped while climbing out of the crash. You didn’t like how his eyes fixated hungrily on the flesh of your exposed thigh, and you had to shake the thought away while you walked into a voice much more brazen than your own.

“Do you know how to fix an X-Wing?” You stepped forward, and the Rebel insignia on your necklace glinted in the low light. Around these parts, after the fall of the Empire, you’ve heard Rebels strike fear into the local folk. Suddenly, the guy took a step backward, and you reveled in your menace for a split second before you realized someone was standing behind you.

He didn’t speak again before he took off. You stuttered, the sudden appearance of the figure behind you catching in your chest, and it rose to a cut off yelp when a red blast knocked the one who had hit on you off his feet, spiraling over a stormtrooper body, falling to the rocky floor. Dead. He was dead. You spun, praying that your heart hammering in your chest was just leftover adrenaline and not a signifier of a new threat.

Standing behind you, outfitted entirely in silver reflective armor, was a Mandalorian. “Nevarro doesn’t have mechanics.”

You squinted. You were completely taken aback by his presence, his hulking realness, but suddenly his statement overpowered your revelry. “I find that hard to believe.”

“That X-Wing crashed out there is yours.” It isn’t a question. His voice is deep, a baritone that spreads warmth even blocked by the modulator in his helmet. You’d only heard of Mandalorians in stories, legends, around the campfires growing up. You didn’t expect one to ever materialize in anything other than myth, let alone stand in front of you, electric.

You nod. Did he follow you all the way to town?

“You aren’t looking for a mechanic.” His voice is so sure, so big. Your world spins on its axis, the feeling foreign and familiar all at once. He had spoken three sentences to you, and already, you felt that dizzy, magnetic pull that you tried to convince yourself was there much more often than it was.

“I…” You trail off, staring up at his visor. He seems larger than life, much larger than you, at least, and for some reason, the hugeness is cutting off all of your words before they can fully form. “No. I need a way off this planet, though.”

“Can you fly?”

You balk at his question, annoyed—obviously, you could fly—and then remember the only track record you have in the Mandalorian’s eyes is your ship, crash landed and then immediately swallowed by lava. “I’m a pilot. A runner. I’ve been flying since I was six years old.”

He takes a minute, completely silent. The noise of the scattered stormtrooper bodies around you suddenly seems deafening. You aren’t scared of him. You think. Your heart is still hammering, but it’s nothing like the fear that rushed through you when the alien talked to you a few minutes ago. It’s different—not adrenaline, exactly, and not fear. You place the feeling when it washes over you again, warm and unexpected—Excitement.

“Okay.” He moves, and you startle. You didn’t realize the conversation was over.

“Uh,” you stammer, “Do you… do you need a pilot?”

“No,” he says, over his shoulder. His strides are long. You step forward, almost pulled after him, then stuttered to a stop. “But I might be your only ride out of here.”

“Oh,” you manage, and then follow him. The dim light spreads over the horizon as you walk, stunned into silence by his own, trying to mimic his step, his quiet. It doesn’t happen. You’re clunking along beside him, the noise made even louder by the silence in his gait. “I’m not picky, where we go, you know—I was heading away from the Outer Rim, so I’m in no rush to get back there, but—I mean, I’m thankful that you’re taking me anywhere—”

“I can’t pay you. But you don’t have to pay me, either.”

You blink, feet stuttering to a near stop, buffering before you remember to keep following him. “I’m sorry?”

“You can fly, right?”

You blink, eyes darting up to the back of his helmet. It might just be the modulator, but there’s no air in his voice, no struggle to cross the hard, hot terrain. It’s impressive. “I can, but you thought you didn’t need a pilot—?”

“You were a rebel.” His voice is curt. Quick.

Your eyebrows furrow, looking down at the insignia on your necklace and then back up at him. There’s a dry breeze over the molten moors, and his cape catches in the wind. It flutters. It’s the first sign of something gentle about him. It’s the memory you take with you for months later, savoring it for when he’s leaving you on the ship while he goes and catches his bounties, one by one. You cling to it in the long lapses of time where he doesn’t offer you anything but silence. You’ll hold onto it, a butterfly of a memory, for weeks—until he offers you something softer, something warmer. Something real.

You don’t know that in the moment, though. Right now, he’s asked a question, and you’re struggling to answer it honestly. “I was.”

“You don’t scare easily.”

It’s like he’s putting together these impossible puzzle pieces of your life. How is he guessing this? He’s known you for maybe ten whole minutes. It swells in your chest, a thunderbird of a thing, and you don’t know why.

“I’d like to think so,” you manage, as he tilts his helmet back to search you for your answer. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought of his eyes on you, and you wonder what color they are. Maker. Where did that come from?

“Good.”

A ship seems to materialize out of nowhere, but it seems more likely that you were so caught up in the mystery of the Mandalorian and keeping your gaze locked on him that his ship was in the periphery of your vision. You follow him, still confused, up the descended gangplank. Sitting in the middle of the ship is a tiny green baby, with eyes ten times the size of its nose, with peach fuzz lazily dusting the top of its head. It’s holding a tiny silver ball in its three-fingered hands, looking up at the Mandalorian with outstretched arms.

You watch, in stunned silence, as the giant hulking silver figure crouches down to pick up the baby, meeting its little coos with soft words right back. It’s as soft as his cape fluttering in the wind, an unexpected, fleeting feeling of warmth. You don’t know what to do with yourself. The warm breeze buffets the small of your back, ruffles your loose hair. You just stand there, entirely enamored with this tiny green baby in the Mandalorian’s arms, speechless.

“You don’t scare easily,” the Mandalorian repeats.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He holds the baby up to you. “How about now?”

You blink, confused. “Am I supposed to be scared of it?”

“Him.”

You take a tentative step forward, gaze flickering between the two of them, wondering what would have happened if you had crash landed literally anywhere else, at literally any other time. Something big and ceremonious swells somewhere deep in your chest.

“I’m not scared,” you finally say, and when your eyes find his visor again, you hope he knows you mean you’re not scared of either of them. You could be—most people with common sense are struck with fear at the sight of meeting a Mandalorian, especially one associated with such a widespread bounty hunters’ guild—but fear just keeps getting pushed away as the seconds pass. A small voice in the back of your head whispers that this is another mistake of being too trustful, but the larger half of you knows how to handle yourself if you find trouble. Besides, he has a tiny alien kid, and something tells you the Mandalorian wouldn’t put the baby in a situation that he deemed unsafe. As the door zips shut behind you, you step forward into the ship—into the place you’ll eventually make your home—heart still hammering on and on, thrumming as the three of you lift off of Nevarro’s surface and into the stars.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #fanfiction #i hope y'all enjoy!!!!!#something more

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lin-nin · 3 years

Text

A Mother’s Love & Grief

Ship: SurrogateMother!Reader x SurrogateSon!Wilbur, Philza x Reader

Plot: Wars were never fun, and you hated them. Especially when they involved the sons of your friend.

Disclaimer: Dream SMP Spoilers up to the Manberg vs Pogtopia War, some depictions of violence! Currently a one-shot, but if interest is high I could see myself doing more.

---

You had always been there, lingering the edges and watching. Carefully watching as Wilbur and Tommy got up to their shenanigans. It was the least you could do for Philza. Watching his boys was easy, originally. It had started out simple, even as they raised the walls of L'Manberg. You were proud of them then, even as they fought for their independence. You had felt a fierce pride on how they had grown, regardless of their reasons.

The pain you had felt the day of the first revolution matched your pride. It had hurt seeing them get hurt the way they had, but you were powerless to stop them. There was a leverage over you because of them that you couldn't risk actively picking sides. So you watched, though you made sure to tell them you were proud of them once it all ended. You even promised Wilbur to tell Philza what a good job the two of them had to done. He had always wanted the approval of his father, and creating a country for freedom surely was a reason to be proud.

As L'Manberg grew, you settled within the walls, celebrating happily with the boys as they did. It was with pride you had watched the election, rooting for them to win. It was what they clearly wanted. The pride could only turn to horror as they were exiled, though. You had frantically shoved Tommy away, acutely aware of how dire it was that he get out safe. You had sacrificed yourself that night, an arrow through the neck draining you. A shot meant for Tommy. You couldn't do the same for Wilbur, helplessly watching as he was shot down by Punz. You couldn’t even cry out for him when you had seen the shot coming.

Everything had changed that day. You had carefully snuck off to their exile, forcing Technoblade to promise to watch them and take care of them. They were Philza’s boys, and he at least owed his friend that. You kept to Manberg then, sneaking out periodically to offer up information when you could. It wasn't until just before the festival when Tommy had come to you, desperate for help.

"It's Wilbur! He's gone- He's gone mad! He wants to blow up L'Manberg, he thinks it'll fix it. You have to tell him, tell him it's wrong. He won't listen to me. Please," The youngest had begged you, and you had relented without a second thought. Wilbur looked mad when you had walked into Pogtopia, his hair a mess. You hadn't seen him since the banishment.

"Wilbur…" You murmured cautiously, causing him to spin towards you.

"Did Tommy tell you? What do you think?" He asked, a grin on his face. An unstable grin. You needed to proceed cautiously, and you knew that.

"I think… it's impressive, but surely there's another way, isn't there?"

"If there's no L'Manberg to rule, wouldn't that be better? No more Schlatt, no more presidency, no more Dream breathing down our necks. Its perfect!" He seemed eager, and it made your heart pang.

"If there's no L'Manberg, you, me, Tommy and Tubbo all lost lives for nothing. Tommy would have given up his discs for nothing. Were all of the sacrifices pointless?" You kept your voice level, trying not to be cynical towards him. One thing could set him off.

"You died for Tommy! I'm proud of him for his growth but L'Manberg has only caused problems. Wouldn’t Phil be proud?" The words had stunned you then.

"Would Phil be proud? You're planning to blow up an entire country because you rightfully lost, Wilbur! Why would he be proud?" You had gestured around the pair of you, words clearly upsetting the brunette.

"Because I'm doing what's right! Who gives a damn if it makes me the bad guy?" Wilbur flung his hands up, scowling at you.

"You can solve this without blowing up a country, without being a terrorist! You aren't doing the right thing!" You had been fed up and frustrated, deeming to Tommy that there was clearly no reasoning with Wilbur. He was beyond that point. You could see it in his eyes.

The festival had caused more pain. It seemed like that's all it had brought. Tubbo died at the hands of Technoblade that day, the shot only spurring you more. What the hell had this country done? When the war came you kept to yourself. The second revolution was rough, but you truly wanted no part of it. It was for a country you were having your doubts for, but at least it was in tact. You may not care much for it, but the others did so you didn't care.

It was only when the victory cheers rallied that you cared to look, smiling almost fondly at the boys as they gave their speeches. It was messy and unpolished, but their pride and joy was immeasurable. They had succeeded in something they cared about for the second time.

Peace never seemed to stay with L'Manberg though. No sooner than victory was declared, fighting broke out again. You cried out as Techno fired at your boys, doing everything you could to protect it. That's when you heard it, the hissing of bombs. You hardly had time to react, watching as the ground beneath everyone shattered, erupting into a rain of wood and Earth. It was chaos, and you frantically searched for Wilbur. You didn't care that he had done this- please just let him be okay.

He was stood in a cave across one of the craters. With Philza. The man looked torn, and you could only stand and watch. It felt like slow motion as Wilbur shoved the sword into his father's hands. Philza’s wings flexed, frustrated as he yelled. You couldn't make out the words, everything ringing around you from the explosion. The sword was pointed towards Wilbur’s chest, the tip threatening to impale him. And then it did, and you weren’t sure if Wilbur had pushed himself onto it or if Philza had done it himself.

You were vaguely aware of the screaming. Your own screaming, to be exact, as tears streamed down your face. Wilbur was gone. The last life he had, taken in the name of a country that had done him wrong. You don't remember who moved you from the chaos of the battle. It became a blur in your shock and grief.

Days had passed and you sat in a house that had been built for you. You believed Tubbo had built it, simply saying that you deserved it. The grief had shocked you numb, the moments replaying through your head every time your eyes closed. Philza eventually visited, the visitations often quiet. Much of the time was spent with him making sure you were taken care of. As time passed, you opened up more, you recovered. The wound sort of healed. Enough for you to speak to Philza of his sons and what they had gotten up to in his absence.

As you recounted stories, you often found yourself pressed to his side, a dark wing draped around you. Sometimes he even managed to get you out of the house, walking around the lake they'd put in the explosion craters. Sometimes you would stare down at the water, watching the fish dance beneath the surface. Like they'd always belonged there.

It was all fine, until the day you met Ghostbur. The ghost had floated in behind Philza one day, chatting happily in a voice that only seemed reminiscent of Wilbur. He had introduced himself, recounting a few memories. That Wilbur had always cared deeply for you, and that he knew you had always done the same and looked out for him. He only seemed to remember the fond memories, and part of it hurt. He was Wilbur. Yet he wasn't. An echo of the boy you watched grow.

It had been silent as you sat there, even after Ghostbur left. Philza didn't follow, simply settling beside you. A wing wrapped around you, safely tucking you into his side. The sun was setting when he finally broke the silence. "I know," he mumbled quietly. As if anything louder would have been too much. "I miss him too."

"Everyday?" You whispered, voice thick with sadness. You looked up to him, desperate for reassurance. That this was normal, that you weren't alone.

"Everyday. It's hard. I always wonder if I could have stopped him." He stared wistfully out the window, and you released a shuddering breath.

"I do too. I tried. Not hard enough. Maybe I should have stopped him from even creating L'Manberg. All that it has brought is pain. So many people died for it. Our boys-" You choked as you spoke, the words spilling out with no restraint. "We lost him. I lost him. I loved him, Phil. He was like my own son, and watching him die-"

It was the first time you broke. The first time you spilled and acknowledged everything like this. Phil had shifted, moving to tug you into his lap. To hold you tight, both wings cocooning you there. You clung to him without a second thought, face burying into his neck as you sobbed.

"Everytime I close my eyes I see it- his body just- it hurts, and I couldn't stop it. I couldn’t save him, I couldn't save my boy," Your voice raised with your hysteria, and Phil rubbed your back.

"It isn't your fault. I don't know if either of us could have saved him. It's okay to grieve him, but don't let it eat you alive." His cheek rested against your head, and you hiccuped softly. He held onto you tight, the moment feeling horribly somber. You had finally broken after months of barely living.

"Ghostbur isn't the same. He's not our Wilbur," you whispered after your crying had slowed.

"No, he's not. He tries, though. He's got the best intentions with what he can remember. He wanted to see you right away but we wouldn't let him. He said Wilbur always thought of you as a mother." His voice was soft. Tender. You took a shaking breath, sitting up some more so you could look at Phil.

"How much does he remember?" You questioned, leaning into the hand that came to cup your cheek. Your eyelids fluttered shut as he wiped at the tear tracks with his thumb, trying to make sure you were okay.

"The trauma is gone, for the most part. He seems to only remember the good." He explained, and you nodded. You were somewhat glad for that. You weren't sure you could handle it if he remembered every detail of his demise.

"Was I a good mother?" Your voice was meek as you questioned Phil, reaching up to cradle his hand. His gaze softened at the action, moving to hold your hand instead.

"Given the circumstances, I'd say you weren’t bad. You tried your best to protect them. Tommy told me about the exile. That there is enough to rule you a decent mother." He ran one of his knuckles against the scar on your neck.

"I didn't even think about it when I did it," You leaned forward, settling your head on his shoulder.

"You don't need to, as a parent. It's instinct. Just remember the other two are still alive, I think they could use you." You nodded, closing your eyes. "Try and actually talk to Ghostbur soon, too. It'd make him happy." You only nodded again, the emotional exhaustion wearing on you. Phil pressed a ghost of a kiss to your temple, before settling his head atop yours. You weren't sure when you lost consciousness, only aware of the warmth and closure in your heart.

#philza #philza minecraft #philza x reader #philza minecraft x reader

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missorgana · 3 years

Text

words hung above, but never would form

pairing: bucky barnes/sam wilson

fandom: mcu, what if...?

rating: mature

word count: 3500

warning: swearing, alcohol, major character death, blood, guns

summary: What might've happened after the zombie apocalypse broke out, before the last team of heroes was formed, and how Bucky Barnes lost Sam Wilson. (pre-canon fic to what if... zombies!?)

(a few days ago i posted this very painful angst fic i thought of after the zombies episode of what if...? so here i am dropping it on tumblr as well!! i apologise, please know that it broke my heart to write this. uhm. that’s all!)

read on ao3

It’s been three months since they lost Steve.

Well, since the world lost most of the Avengers, really. And since the world lost most of its, uh, regular people anyway.

It’s a dark world full of shit and blood and brains out there now, yet Bucky’s taking his cold shower in the morning and cannot bring himself to care much. Sounds harsh, he knows.

He knew nothing of this new world and new time except his best friend, so of fucking course, Steve being… not Steve made him feel like there was no fucking point to anything. If the Avengers couldn’t beat this zombie virus? Yeah, there’s no hope for humanity anymore.

Except… except the man who greets him in the morning, handing him a plate of pancakes without even asking if he wanted some and pinning yet another red pin on their vastly growing map of ghost towns. Those are fully infected spots, by the way. Nothing left but the undead. The map is turning overwhelmingly red overwhelmingly fast.

The man hovering at said map also hands him his coffee, puts on one of the records from their LP stash, and smiles his sunny, stupid grin before ruffling Bucky’s hair and telling him he missed a spot.

Yeah, the world’s become even more of a dog eat dog world than before.

But Bucky Barnes’ got Sam Wilson. And nothing else matters.

It’s ironic really, that when he’s gotten out of cryo, that he’s finally rid of the Hydra programming and torture and pain he’s endured for years, and at the same time, someone somewhere got bitten and humanity’s become a walking all you can eat buffet. Perfect timing.

Of course, Steve’s never fled from a fight in his life, so honestly? Bucky can’t exactly say he’s surprised. He is- sorry, was an Avenger after all. The little shit.

What does surprise him, however, is finding himself growing closer to Sam, Steve’s friend who for some reason, somehow, was just as intent on finding him as Steve was. And… helping him. Saving him.

Bucky never understood why. He still doesn’t. He hates himself for everything they made him do, he’ll probably continue hating himself for as long as he lives, no matter how much he tries to suppress it, but Sam doesn’t.

Sam fought for him, fought with him, visited him in Wakanda and took him back to a somewhat normal life before… you know. Now they’ve found a safehouse after losing everyone they had, except each other, and they’ve zombie-proofed to the best of their ability.

And life with Sam, well, Bucky could get used to it. In fact, he gets used to it very quickly.

Sam smiles so easily at him and doesn’t look at him like he’s a broken man who needs to be fixed. Sam doesn’t look at him with resentment, or pity, he just… looks at him.

It’s hard to explain.

Thing is, nothing makes sense. The violence that keeps on going and going doesn’t make sense, Bucky losing his best friend in the world doesn’t make sense, the streets being abandoned and houses vacant and survival being a constant factor in life now doesn’t make sense.

But the man he’s hiding out with makes sense. He makes so much sense. The only thing that makes sense anymore.

His existence is constant, he’s there for him when he lets him and when he doesn’t, he gives him space. The shorter man is as if the sun was living and breathing, and himself, well, he’s the moon. He’s just trying to stay in Sam's orbit.

Chasing after him. Circulating. Bashing in everything he’s willing to give him.

The scruffy beard he’s let grow, and him humming to himself while he’s working on Redwing, and the wheezing, carefree laugh he can’t stop when Bucky suggests they watch a zombie movie one night. He tells Sam not to overwork himself and he promises not to, and the other man tells him to let him know what’s going on in his head, and hell, Bucky tells him. He tells him everything.

In fact, it’s the same night they do watch a zombie movie, frequently pointing out the inaccuracies and turning it into a drinking game with the terrible, terrible booze they swiped from the supermarket, that he looks at the short haired man dozing off on his shoulder and realises that this is the most peace he’s ever had.

It’s basically an apocalypse outside, but Bucky can’t get himself to look away from Sam’s eyelashes fluttering lightly as he slips off to sleep.

Their legs are tangled into each other on the coffee table, the microwave popcorn long abandoned, one of his friend’s hands resting on his thigh.

His beard scratches his shoulder, but he doesn’t mind. Sam has asked him if he should shave it several times, but God no, never. That beard’s been doing a lot of things to him - all good, of course.

He turns down the volume a bit. Sam looks peaceful. He hasn’t been sleeping much, he knows neither of them have, and where’s the time for it, anyway? He’s glad he is now.

Bucky can’t get himself to move, fearing waking the short haired man from his slumber, and for a minute, the outside world is far, far away from their reality.

Sam looks incredibly soft in that ripped sweater and sweatpants and the snore he lets out is no less than adorable.

It’s like- he looks at this man, and suddenly it’s like everything just falls back into place.

He looks soft in the morning over breakfast and hazy eyes, soft in the evening when he says goodnight, soft when he’s clutching the photos of his nephews (AJ and Cass were their names, he’s learned), soft when he’s retelling a memory with his parents on the family boat, soft when they both muse about Steve and his dumb shenanigans.

He looks something entirely different when he’s shirtless out of the shower and tiny droplets still fall down his chest and abs and Bucky struggles to breathe, every damn time. He only realises now why that is.

Sam is like a sunset, because Bucky wants nothing more than to wake up to this man and nothing else every day, till the end of time. What more could he wish for?

He’s beautiful. Bucky doesn’t think he’s called anyone, or anything beautiful before.

Looking back, he can’t see anymore how they could argue and bicker and annoy each other, and doesn't understand why. He’s wasted so much fucking time doing that. Not anymore. He could never go back to that, it would most likely kill him. Steve would be thrilled if he could see them now, wouldn't he?

And while this realization dawns upon him, washing over him like the biggest wave you could possibly imagine, he wonders if Sam feels the same when he looks at him.

Does he feel safe falling asleep on his shoulder like this? Does he find everlasting comfort in his smile like he does in his, does he wake up hoping and praying to see his smile, just once? Does he do everything he can think of to make him look at him, like he tries every single day?

He can only dream.

Huh. So this is what it’s like to be in love. Bucky doesn’t hate it.

It’s only a month after his life-changing realization of the sort that couldn't make him concentrate on everything else, that Bucky decides today is the day. He’s going to confess his feelings for his friend.

And this is something in the middle of chaos, something he’s never experienced before. He’d never thought he’d practice his words in the mirror like a nervous teenager, but alas.

Sam Wilson, I’m in love with you. No. No, it’s too short. Think, James. What does he make you feel?

Sam, you’re the last thing I think about when I go to sleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up. Sam, I want to see you smile every day. Sam, I want to make you happy… as happy, as… happy as you make me.

Too long? Shit.

Sam, you’re the only good in this piece of shit world. I love you. Sam hates when he’s that pessimistic, though, and always tells him to cheer up, even in the middle of a zombie invasion. Another reason why he loves him.

Sam, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing I wouldn't do to see you happy. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.

His stream of thought is interrupted by faint clanging in the kitchen of their safehouse. Bucky sighs. He’s not sure this is going to be perfect, he wants it to be.

He has to go, he has to try. Now or never.

Except… the smile he’s come to anticipate every single morning isn’t there to meet him. Instead, he sees Sam suited up, wing pack on his back, gloves on, looking through one of their many folders they’ve filled up with theories of the infection and safe spots and danger zones and everything else.

Bucky frowns, looks at him in silence for a moment. Maybe he’ll try a joke, “Going somewhere?”

His friend hums without looking, “I’m going to catch Steve.”

Sorry, what? What the fuck?

Sam did not just say what he thinks he said. He didn’t. He couldn’t have.

This is why he blinks in disbelief, for the first time rendered speechless by the other man. Sam looks up at him, face glazed over by determination and confusion by his own reaction, most like. Then, worry overtakes his usually warm, deep brown eyes, ones that he could drown himself in and never come out of.

“You okay, Bucky?” he asks, and Bucky clenches his jaw.

“You’re going to… catch him,” he says, a statement rather than a question. It’s Sam’s turn to frown, but he nods.

“Yes. Catch him and bring him back.”

“You’re joking,” he laughs in sheer denial, but the seriousness in his friend’s face is scaring him, “Sam… tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Oh, this is just not happening. This world lets him fall in love with the most perfect person he knows and then lets that very same person be so fucking stupid?

Bucky can’t let him go. Bucky can’t lose him.

“What, then?” he asks, one hand on his hip, “Invite him over and let him eat our brains, just like that?”

“ Bucky. We’re going to catch him, and then we’ll cure him.”

He laughs, loudly. Okay, this is just hilarious. Sam Wilson is the most perfect person in this world exactly because of this- because he believes this world is still able to be saved. Because he believes it’s worth saving . Fucking hell.

“You found a cure you’re not telling me about?”

Sam sighs, scratching his chin, “Come on, Buck. I talked to Hope-”

“Who?”

“Hope Van Dyne. The Wasp,” the shorter man explains, “She lost her parents, and Scott Lang, remember?”

Bucky shrugs, but nods.

“Well, she’s been recruiting those of us who survived. Who’s left. And she thinks there might be a way to reverse the virus, her father brought it from the, uh… Quantum Realm.” Sam’s about to hand him one of the folders, but he crosses his arms, and shakes his head, then.

God, Bucky’s well aware how stubborn he is. Sam has told him plenty of times.

But he’ll be damned if he lets the man go just like that. He’s not letting him get hurt.

“That’s not happening,” he says shortly. His friend’s frown deepens.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not going after that thing.”

The man turns to him completely, wide-eyed and shock written all over his features. “ That thing? ” he huffs, “That thing is our friend.”

“Not anymore, Sam. I’m not letting you get yourself killed by the undead.”

“He’s not dead,” Sam says. His voice raised. He looks- he doesn't look soft anymore. There’s no trace of that smile that gives Bucky shivers down his spine. He looks… upset. He’s upset. Fucking shit.

Why can’t he- fuck , can he not try to be a fucking hero right now? That’s why Steve’s gone. Why can’t he see that?

“You’re being irrational,” Bucky tells him, feeling the anger rise within him, this is not how it was supposed to go, stay with me-

“Oh, I’m being irrational?” Sam laughs, sarcasm evident in his voice, “There might be a cure. We might get Steve back, Buck. And I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know, but-”

“But, what?” he sighs, again. The irritation is flowing between them, Bucky’s freaking out, and above all, Sam looks… he looks disappointed.

This is the worst he’s felt in his whole fucking life. He can’t disappoint the only person that matters to him. Yet he did.

“What if Hope’s wrong, Sam? It’s pointless, most of the population’s infected anyway, it would take forever to get everyone-”

“You’ve got that little faith in me?”

No. No no no. Sam, no. I love you. I love you so much it pains me to see you like this, I never meant to hurt you, I didn’t-

“We’ve lost too many, Sam!” he finds himself yelling, none of the words scrambled in his brain making it out. He’s the most stupid of them, obviously, not that he wasn’t aware. “I know you believe these people can be saved, and your hope is incredible, but can you please… not go?”

“I’m an Avenger, Bucky. It’s what I do. It’s what Steve did.”

“It’s what got Steve turned.”

This seems to be something Sam has to ponder over, because a rather uncomfortable silence settles between them. His friend’s eyes soften somewhat, but his teeth are still gritted, as are his own. Would be inappropriate to confess his undying love to the other man now, wouldn’t it?

“I do believe they can be saved,” his friend eventually speaks up, “I believe that because I need to. I lost my parents, Sarah, Steve, Natasha. I have to try.”

See, that makes sense. Another reason why Bucky fucking loves him and wants to kiss his stupid fucking face and beg him not to go. But he doesn’t.

“It’s too risky, Sam, it’s not safe.”

“I told you, I can take care of myself.”

Bucky holds in a whine, embarrassing, desperate , “I know you can! You’re a fucking hero. You’re one of the best, Sam, you are. I wish I was that brave, I just-”

“Then why won’t you let me do this?” his friend asks in frustration, “Why won’t you let me try?”

I can’t lose you. “Because I lo-”

The words are interrupted by a loud bang. Sam closes his mouth immediately, tight-lipped. Bucky’s mouth hangs open, voice disappearing. Another bang. Then a moan reaches them from somewhere far away.

Their eyes widen in synchron as they look at each other, eye contact unwavering. They both know what that sound means.

Someone’s coming in. Someone not human.

Whatever’s found them, it’s on the roof, and it’s trying its hardest to get in, so Bucky’s got to shut his mind off and get ready.

Not only is he stupid enough to start a fight with Sam, they also get discovered by one of the zombies. Fan-fucking-tastic. They run to opposite ends of the safehouse, trying to locate exactly where the intruder’s at.

Bucky follows the sound into the hallway, past the bathroom, while Sam stays behind in the kitchen, machine gun pointed at the ceiling. He could not have picked a worse time to speak his feelings than today, could he? Well done, James.

And as if this day isn’t already bad enough, he can’t hear the groaning from the roof anymore.

“Sam!” he yells, because it doesn’t matter if the brain-eater hears them, “I lost it.”

“I hear them,” his friend yells back, prompting Bucky to make his way back, adrenaline pumping, feeling the sweat running down his back, “They’re on- Bucky! Buck-”

A crash. The biggest fucking crash he’s ever heard. Silence.

No.

“Sam?!”

“I’m here,” he hears the other man’s coughing, “It’s Steve. It’s Steve! Steve, hey, okay, now stay right there-”

Bucky’s officially panicking. This is not happening. It’s not .

He’s running so fast he stumbles over his own feet. At the same time, he feels as if he’s frozen on the spot. He’s not sure what’s real anymore.

“Sam, I’m coming-”

Sam screams . And Bucky’s heart is torn out of his chest and smashed onto the floor.

It’s the most earth shattering scream Bucky’s ever heard. It reaches him and goes inside every bone in his body and clouds his vision and makes him want to scream in anger. Sam. Sam. Sam. I need him. I need you.

Yet, when he reaches the living room, he sees nothing at first but rubble and smoke. The roof’s broken down. And in the middle of it, a figure is huddled over another lying on the floor, eerily still.

No. This isn’t real.

He might even convince himself he’s dreaming, he really might, because his vision is still clouded, and his teeth are still gritted so hard he bites the inside of his cheek, until the figure turns around and he’s met with a familiar face.

Steve Rogers.

But it isn’t his Steve, it could never be, because this Steve? This one’s a walking corpse. Sickly pale skin and blood between his teeth and red eyes looking back at Bucky with no memory or remorse. And on the floor-

On the floor… on the floor- He can’t be. He’s- Sam is- Sam .

“Sam,” is all Bucky can say, feeling like a broken record. His voice breaks, and the undead fucker in front of him doesn’t move an inch.

Sam is bitten. My Sam. I love you. I love you so fucking much and that’s why I didn’t want you to go, you perfect idiot, I love you-

He’s clutching the machine gun too hard, his knuckles are turning white, but he can’t do anything.

“That’s enough, Steve,” he finds himself addressing him. It doesn’t faze the thing in front of him, but that’s not surprising. It’s not his friend anymore, “Enough.”

Then a moan sounds, but it doesn’t come from Steve’s mouth. The figure on the floor rises, slowly. Sam Wilson. But he isn't his Sam anymore.

Sam looks at him. There’s nothing in his eyes, they’re empty. No warmth, no safety, not anymore.

He’s gone, but he can’t make himself believe it.

The thing that used to be his friend… the man he’s in love with, the man he wanted to spend every day with, every day for the rest of his life, if only he’d let him, that monster that’s destroyed the most beautiful soul on this shitty earth, hollowed him out and taken his body, that monster groans again.

Then, both figures move. The fuckers are moving in one direction, and that’s towards him.

They’re not fast, Bucky backs away, but his eyes are soon clouded by hot streams of tears running down his face. He can’t hold them back. He can’t control himself. He can’t control anything, not anymore.

So he raises his gun, “Sam,” he whispers, well aware no one’s going to respond, “Sam, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. This is all my-”

He squeezes his eyes shut, ready to fire all the ammo he’s got into his two undead friends, but he opens them again, looks back at them. They’re hungry. They’re still moving.

Bucky can’t breathe.

He wipes at his tears angrily, looking back and forth between those two dead fuckers and hovers his finger over the trigger, but he can’t… he can’t. He only realises in this second. He can’t shoot.

They’re not themselves anymore , he reminds himself. They’re gone.

But Sam’s warm voice full of peace and sunshine and lazy laughter and fleeting, shy touching of hands pops up in his head. That thing is our friend. He’s not dead. Those things are your best friend and the love of your life, James.

The zombies keep coming closer and Bucky bites his tongue.

“Shit.”

He lowers his gun, and because he doesn’t know what else to do, he knocks over the coffee table, then the TV, then the potted plant that Sam loves- loved so much, and runs as fast as he can, not looking back. He hears more crashes, the distraction hopefully successful, but doesn’t slow down.

Bucky escapes out the back door, jumps in the car and pushes the speeder.

Sam Wilson, I’m so in love with you, I can’t think about anything else. You’re the only one for me. I love you. And now you’re gone because of me. I didn’t get to tell you.

He doesn’t know what to do, or where he’s going, except- he needs to find Hope Van Dyne. He has to.

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kimistorm · 3 years

Text

Fly Away my Love || Chapter 1: Step Out (Stray Kids Reader Insert AU)

Masterlist

You didn't have any plan in mind when you escaped, and that left you lost in the wide-open world. Luckily for you, you found some helping hands along the way who proved to be more than strangers who were in the same boat as you...they became something more, and you couldn't be more thankful for the eight men by your side. Stray Kids Supernatural Abilities AU! Platonic relationships as of now~

Warnings: Some violence with mentions of getting hurt, blood, and guns.

Run.

Get out of here!

Faster.

I can’t leave you behind!

Fear.

Stop it!

Go.

You panted as you struggled to keep yourself in the air. The air was cold and dry, and your throat was quickly parched as you tried to gulp down air. The sweat that was causing your clothes to stick to your body felt cold and sticky in the cool air. Making you feel simultaneously hot and cold as your nerves felt alight with burning pain. The sky surrounding you was a light gray that allowed you to see without squinting into the sun but it seemed to suck the color out of the landscape below you.

You knew your wings were already damaged, and to suddenly throw them into heavy use caused a loud protest. You could feel everything that was happening on your wings, you could feel every brush of a feather against another, and every wound screamed as if it were on fire. You heard the sound of guns and blindly swerved in the air, hoping that it was trained on your previous position and that you would escape unscathed. However, that hope was in vain.

You let out a cry as a new wound bloomed from the tip of your wing. You could feel hot liquid leaking out and knew without looking that it was dying your white wing red. More gunshots. Move! A voice desperately cried in your head and you tried to dodge something you couldn’t see. A flare of pain. You clutched desperately at your arm that had been hit. Renewed fire made its way through your nerves and your hand was soaked in red. Tears started to pour down your cheeks from the pain, and the flaps from your wings faltered.

There was another shot and pain erupted from your other wing. This time it hit the center and the pain seemed to seize your wing and make it unresponsive. You desperately tried to regain control as you spiraled to the earth. One wing desperately flapping to keep you afloat while the other was frozen in shock. The earth was rapidly coming towards you and you steered yourself towards an open dumpster that you hoped was full of things that would cushion your fall.

There was a loud crash as your body came to a screeching halt, but luck was on your side for once. While the crunching of metal and the clinks of glass made it sound like there were definitely some soda cans, the top layer was a few bags of thrown out clothes. You let yourself lay there for a second to try and catch your breath. Around you, your wings disintegrated into little white flecks that glowed a soft (f/c).

You didn’t know how long you rested there, one hand clutched around your wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding (which was working), your breathing slowing down to a calm rate. It was strangely...comfortable. Sure, it was lumpy and you definitely wouldn’t choose it as a bed, but given your current state of exhaustion, laying there in the dumpster felt like the best course of action. You felt your eyes start to flutter shut and you did nothing to try and stop it, especially after your grand escapade. You just wanted to rest.

Your eyes shot open when you heard shouting, “find (pronoun)!” Your heart dropped into your stomach. You thought you had lost them. As it turns out, you weren’t able to get far enough away. Either way, staying in the dumpster would certainly corner you, so even though it felt like every muscle was telling you ‘no,’ you had to get out. Peeking your head above the edge of the dumpster, you checked the area to see that it was devoid of life. Good.

With a hand placed on the edge, you lightly swung your body over it and onto the ground. You checked again, and seeing nobody, ran in the opposite direction of where you heard the shouting. You tried to keep your feet from slapping loudly on the ground as you peered around corners and darted out. You didn’t know where you were going, you just needed to get out. Maybe find the edge of the town and hide out in the area beyond. You hadn’t seen anyone yet, but that didn’t mean the town was deserted. Leaving would lessen the number of eyes and the chances of you getting caught.

You didn’t get far until you heard someone shout, “there!” and you were running for your life again. You didn't know how many people were chasing you, but judging from the chorus of footsteps behind you, it was a formidable group. You doubted you’d be able to take on one person, but a whole group? Biting your cheek, you forced yourself to keep moving. While ignoring the fatigue weighing down on your limbs and trying to get you to stop. At least you had a break from running during your flight and your little not-nap in the dumpster.

You chanced a glance behind you to see how far your pursuers were from you, and you were relieved to find a space between you and the small group clad in black, but that didn’t mean you were in the clear yet. You were still clearly visible to the group chasing you, and if you faltered for a second, they would catch up. A small voice in your head wondered why they hadn’t shot you yet, considering how normally they never restrained like this, but you were too panicked to care.

You turned a corner hoping to lose them, but instead, a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist before pulling you close. Thinking the worst, you desperately punched and kicked against whoever held you, fighting back against the person who grabbed you and pulled you into the shadows. “Stop it!” the hushed yell commanded as the person fought with you and managed to pin you against the rough wall, “do you want to get caught?” a hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from screaming even though a scream threatened to rip itself from your throat. Both from pain and from fear. However, the rapid stomping of feet caused you to still and listen to the stranger. You knew with certainty what would happen if you were captured by the soldiers in black. Falling down that path meant going into a tunnel with no light. This stranger...well, you could always fight back if you needed to. Probably.

The stranger let out a sigh of relief, “they’re gone.” He reported and loosened his tight grip on you. You immediately took the chance and yanked yourself out of his grasp. He desperately tried to catch you and keep his hold, but you were too quick as you put a couple of feet between the two of you and glared at him. You could’ve run, and a small voice in the back of your head was shouting at you to run. Get out while you can. But whoever this was, he saved you, and you were far too curious to know why than to listen to the voice of reason.

“Why did you save me?” you demanded, a bit too coldly for someone who desperately needed that split second of kindness to save you. Your chest was still heaving and it felt like your limbs were heavier than before, but this was still a moment of rest that you hoped would give you enough strength to continue.

Even in the shadows of the alley the two of you hid in, his eyes seemed to emit a faint glow of red as he stared back at you. You couldn’t help but take a scared step back. You didn’t notice it when he held onto you, but he seemed to emit an aura like a demon. He noticed the fear that settled on your face before he blinked and shook his head, “sorry,” he apologized with a sweet smile and the glow disappeared. You blinked. Was that magic? Did he have something like you? “You were running from them, right?” he asked with the same sweet smile.

You were slow to respond as you were trying to be careful about the situation. Revealing that you were trying to get away wasn’t anything that would hurt you, right? “Yeah. Thank you.” Your response was curt. This was still a stranger, and even though there was the slight possibility that he was in the same situation as you, you weren’t going to let that sway you into making rash moves.

“I’m Seungmin.” You couldn’t help but stare at the dark-haired man in shock. He gave away his name so easily. He knew nothing about you, yet he was already offering this hand of friendship?

He was looking at you expectantly, waiting for an answer from you, “oh, uh (stage/fake name. Will be abbreviated as s/n from now on).” He didn’t seem to hold any ill intent, but you weren’t going to be so trusting.

It was almost like he could read the atmosphere off of you and his gaze softened, “I can do magic.”

“Why would you say that?” you immediately snapped. The guarded look and atmosphere was immediately replaced with hostility. “You don’t know if I can do magic, and in this world, magic is a condemnable offense worth your life.” You took another step away from him, this time, not out of fear, but because this man was too trusting. If you let him through your walls and trusted him, if he went down, so would you, and right now it seemed like he would go down very easily. “Thank you for saving me, but I don’t owe you anything.” You took another step back away from him, he didn’t move closer to you, instead, he hung back with an almost disappointed aura around him. “I will be taking my leave now.” Without giving him a second glance, you turned around, gave a quick glance to make sure nobody was there, and ran off.

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ahgaseda · 4 years

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phoenix | one

I’ll be the phoenix, leave it to me, we be flying, spread your wings behind your back, they call us phoenix, ride or die, ride or die...

summary : the clock is ticking as you recount your passionate affair with Jackson, the most wanted man in Shanghai, to the people trying desperately to catch him, but no one - including you - knows if he will risk his life to save yours.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, mentions of blood and violence, references to drug and alcohol use, graphic sexual content, self-destructive themes, potentially triggering elements involving kidnapping, arson, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

The chains rattled on the steel table. The cold cuffs wrapped around your wrists were anchored to the surface, looped through a bolt. You weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

It had been a quiet Thursday night. Nothing out of the ordinary to note. You left your apartment and went out for dinner. The steak was cooked just right. Your company of friends were lighthearted and buzzing from wine, but for once didn’t grill you about your relationship.

On the way home, you were ambushed. You put up a fight, of course, knowing all the while it was futile. The men had descended on you like thieves in the night and none of them were gentle.

Shoved into a chair and fastened to the table, you were read your rights, but by their tones, you had none. Five hours had passed since your less than legal arrest. The clock slipped past midnight a while ago. There was no telling when you would be reported missing, if at all.

Your closest friends knew you vanished from time to time. It was that good for nothing guy you dated, whisking you away to god knows where, they often jeered. Envy was ugly.

He was on your mind. He would notice your absence. Especially the empty space left in his bed.

The detective slapped a file in front of you, but the loud smack that echoed through the room did little to rouse you at this ungodly hour. He was middle-aged and the lines of his face were hard, furrowed. You wondered about the kind of people often in your current position. Gangsters, killers, and the like. You had done nothing to warrant the same treatment.

“Am I being charged with a crime?” you asked, poised and calm as you had been trained. You tossed the idea of trying to speak to them in their native tongue the moment you were booked. Your Mandarin was rudimentary and would likely get you into more trouble. “You have no right to hold me here, chained up like a criminal.”

He shot back, “You are at the center of a government investigation.”

Those words alone should have sent your heart somewhere to the pit of your stomach, but you knew better. All your life, you had been a law abiding citizen. But they treated you like you were wickedness personified.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” you replied, head held high. You dared not give them an inch. You couldn’t afford it.

He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes scathing. His reply was bitter, dripping with disdain, “Your lover has done plenty.”

You didn’t argue. It was abundantly clear you had no rights in this damned metal box. Lover; the word lingered in your mind a second or two. Yes, he was your lover. No man had loved you like him and no man ever would again.

Was he in love with you? Not even God knew the answer to that.

The detective finally took the seat across from you, in an attempt of appearing more diplomatic. His shouting and intimidation had gone nowhere.

“Tell me about your relationship with Jackson Wang.”

Your eyes fluttered. Just hearing his name made your heart spin. The boy owned you - mind, body and soul. Lacing your fingers together in front of you, you lied, “I don’t have one.”

The detective snorted. Then, he withdrew a photo from the file and placed it before you.

There you were in black and white, centered in a scope that for all you knew could have belonged to a sniper’s rifle, caught up in Jackson’s arms as he kissed you with abandon. Passion flowed freely from every inch of the photograph. It belonged on display in a gallery for twisted, ill-fated lovers.

You could still remember that day in the picture clearly, how it felt when he pushed you up against the window. The glass was frigid on your back, but did nothing to rival the heat of his body against yours.

Jackson always felt as if he carried the entirety of Hell inside him.

You lifted your gaze from the image at last and murmured, “A moment of weakness… a long time ago.”

The detective didn’t believe you for a second. He rifled through more pages in the file and fanned them out in front of you. “Phone records. Travel logs. Looks like you live in a constant moment of weakness,” he sneered. There was no doubt he resented having to share the same oxygen as you; a woman that willingly slept with the devil himself.

“I do,” you retorted, almost regretting the words when they left your tongue.

The detective raised his voice angrily, “Jackson Wang is singlehandedly running the underworld of Shanghai and is a major player in the open rebellion against the People’s Republic.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. One day you knew you would be confronted with what he was, what he had done. There were nights you lay awake, wondering if you slept in the arms of a murderer.

The detective tapped his finger on the table and the noise brought back your attention. His face was severe, red from stifling his rage. To him, you were a valuable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. His ass was on the line. Perhaps you were the one and only chance he would get at piercing Jackson’s armor.

“I have no information to give,” you answered quietly. “I know nothing of that. Nothing.”

He had gathered that. From the months they had you under surveillance, you were never seen near any of Jackson’s businesses or his known safe houses. He went to great lengths to keep you at a distance from his work.

“Given the nature of his crimes and how viciously he runs his underlings, what would happen if we were to… leak that you were in here, singing like a canary?”

The first threat of the night. You knew it wouldn’t be the last.

You scoffed. He knows I would never betray him. It didn’t matter what Jackson did, you were loyal. Jackson had the ability to inspire loyalty in those close to him. He tolerated many, many things, but disloyalty was not one of them.

The detective lifted a brow, thinking your silence meant he had found an edge. “Have you seen what he does to his enemies?”

Your expression didn’t change. No, he made sure I never saw.

Jackson was ruthless when he took his pleasure from your body. Even more merciless when he buried his head between your thighs. You could only imagine how intensely he ran his underworld.

“Do you know nothing of what he is?” the detective exclaimed, incredulous.

He never wanted me to know, your thoughts wavered.

The world didn’t exist when you were with Jackson. Together, it was just you and him, and everyone else be damned. Every moment spent with him was a lifetime unto itself.

A spontaneous trip to Maldives. An impromptu midnight ride on his yacht in the harbor of Hong Kong. A weekend in South Korea spent locked away in a riverside cottage with only the birds to witness your sins.

Jackson had money. There was no denying that. But so did you. You had made a fortune in your line of work and from then on, no one could buy your attention or affection. Jackson was different. He didn’t shower you with designer clothes or heavy diamonds. He paid attention. Learned your interests and kept you on your toes. He understood you to be like some beautiful mystery in need of solving.

You bit your lip, tears pricking your eyes. You wanted Jackson, wanted to be safe in his arms, hidden against his chest. You loved him. God, you loved him with every fiber of your being. He had taught you how to live again. He showed you there was still a soul somewhere inside you.

Even if his own had been burned out of him.

Clearing your throat and pushing back your emotions, you asserted, “For your own safety, don’t show me anything and don’t leak that you have me in here against my will.”

The man before you bristled with wrath, jaw clenching. “For my own safety?”

You frowned. It was not your intention to anger him. You just needed to keep buying time.

The detective stood abruptly, knocking over his chair and shouting, “Is Jackson going to come for his whore?”

You winced, more so at the screeching sound of his chair scraping the ground than the unsavory words. You weren’t surprised that was how they saw you.

They had probably sent women to seduce Jackson before. Find a crack in his walls to exploit. They must have waited years for him to finally have someone he could love, someone to ultimately break him.

The detective began circling the room, like a vulture spiraling around its next meal. You weren’t afraid. There were laws in place for situations like these. At least, you hoped they still applied to you.

I have to get out, you thought. You steadied your breathing and remembered what you had been taught.

Being held captive was something you had rehearsed many times. Jackson tried to chase you off once. He didn’t want you to live in a constant state of danger because of what he was. Then, Jackson realized he had been waiting his whole life to find you - the person who completed him. And that’s when he started preparing you.

In fact, rehearsing being in police custody was one of your favorite roleplays.

You remembered being led into a tiny room, no larger than a closet. Bound to the only chair, Jackson had stormed in and treated you like a traitor. But you knew how soft he was for you, and how bad of a liar he was, and had seen through the ruse all too quickly.

Nevertheless, he wanted you to be ready for whatever the dirty cops would throw at you should the day come you were in their clutches.

“Baby, had I known you were going to tie me to a chair, I would have worn something a little more seductive,” you teased, licking your lips.

With your hands overlapped and cuffed behind your back, your shoulders were pressed to the top of the chair rather uncomfortably. Jackson skulked before you, not uttering a word. His face was shadowed, dark and menacing. All it did was turn you on.

With heat in your eyes, rather than look demure or nervous, you spread your legs.

Jackson let his gaze fall to your parted thighs, clad in black pantyhose. He had bought you the red bottom heels you were wearing and fuck, if they didn’t make your legs look longer. Without a word, he bent down before you, taking your ankle in hand and slipping off the shoe.

You watched in surprise as he tossed both shoes to the wall where they clattered loudly. No distractions, you mused, wanting to giggle.

Jackson saw your little smirk and fought a grin. You weren’t fooled by him in the least. He stalked across the room, coming to stand behind you with a hand gliding up your arm.

You shivered when his fingers found your neck.

“We have ways of making you talk, sweetheart,” he whispered darkly.

“Mm,” you hummed, breathing heavier as his hands stroked your jaw and throat. With every pass of the rough strokes of his palms, they moved further south. You sucked in a gulp of air when his fingers grasped the buttons of your blouse.

Glancing down, you watched him unfasten one button. Then another and another.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked softly, pulsing with adrenaline.

Jackson traced the pads of his fingers down the lines of your cleavage, which he already knew quite intimately, and grinned at the sight of your blood red bra. Also a gift he had bought for you. Perhaps you wore the matching panties beneath your skirt.

It went without saying that red was his color.

You shuddered when you felt his breath hot on your neck, lips brushing your ear. Your hair stood on end. Electricity prickled across your skin. His touches on your breasts were maddening, drawing senseless patterns that only served to stir a fire between your legs.

“I want you to say,” he replied venomously in your ear. “That you’re going to give me everything I want.”

You gulped, shifting in the chair. That voice was lethal, drawing you into a heady fog that almost made you forget the purpose of this roleplay in the first place. And his hands cupping your clothed breasts were even worse. Jackson had godlike hands. Long fingers. Bulging veins. Your mouth watered.

“I’m waiting,” he taunted, taking a patch of flesh on your neck between his teeth.

You quickly asked, “What is it that you want?”

Jackson squeezed your mounds, tugging down the cups of your crimson bra to expose your nipples, pinching them between his deft fingers. With how badly you squirmed on top of the chair, it was safe to say his hands alone were doing a number on you.

“Jack…,” you started, about to tap out. You needed him to soothe the ache he had created.

Jackson caressed your nipples with his thumbs, smirking at the way your chest rose and fell for breath. “Where is the money?” he growled, trying to sound vicious.

You shook your head in defiance. “I never cared about the money.”

Jackson flicked his tongue over the blemish he had made on your neck, one of his hands leaving your chest to wrap around your throat. His next question sounded more like an accusation, “Are you saying you don’t trade him your body for money?”

You snickered. “I give him my body because I love what he does with it,” you purred, snapping your jaws as if you were going to bite him in retaliation.

“Good girl,” Jackson said with a chuckle, thoroughly pleased with you.

You smiled victoriously. Whenever he said those two little words, you melted into his hands. The man could play your body like an instrument. He could draw the devil out of you like poison to dance with his own.

Jackson pressed a single chaste kiss to your temple. Then his thumb and forefinger gripped your neck, suddenly pressing to your blood flow. Your vision clouded and thrummed. The room began to fade. When you felt a hand dip between your legs and settle on your clothed sex, you knew you had passed the test and would get your reward.

You found yourself back in the present, crossing your legs beneath the steel table. It did you no good to think of Jackson and the power he had over your body. Always leaving you satisfied, shaking and screaming. He took pride in making a complete and utter mess of you, ruining you for anyone else.

The detective resumed his threats, but his voice faded into static. He offered to toss you in a cell and throw away the key. But in your mind, you were back in Jackson’s bed, naked save for his dress shirt as he told you what to expect.

“They’ll try to scare you into talking,” he said levelly, sporting only a towel around his waist after a hot shower. “If you flinch, they’ll escalate. Find your happy place and don’t give them an inch. Never let them know you’re afraid.”

You nodded, distracted by the fiery tattoo that covered the full expanse of his back. Jackson was a perpetual distraction.

“Then, they’ll switch it up. Offer you a deal. They may give you full immunity if you give me up,” Jackson continued, focusing on your face to see your reaction.

You rose to your knees, shuffling to the edge of the bed and grabbing him by the hips. Pulling him close, you pressed a kiss to his lips and crooned, “Ride or die, babe.”

Jackson rewarded you with another kiss, but pulled back the moment you tried to slip him your tongue. His expression turned grim. “Then, they might turn off the camera. Might start threatening you with pain.”

You shook your head. Being with him made you brave. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

Jackson cupped your cheek, stroking his thumb over your soft skin, and whispered, “I won’t be there to protect you, but I promise on my life… something bad will happen to them when they least expect it.”

“Just get me back to you, back to where I belong,” you told him impatiently, carding your fingers into his damp hair and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip before kissing him again. At the time, you wanted him to hush this line of conversation, wanted him to focus on the precious time spent together.

What you didn’t know was that the noose had been tightening and Jackson was setting things in motion.

For a moment, he indulged you, sucked eagerly at your tongue in his mouth and kneaded your hips in his broad hands.

Finally, he stopped you, cradling your face and staring intently into your eyes. “You need to know this,” he whispered in hushed tones. “The cops are dirty. Corrupt, every last one of them.”

You nodded your understanding and made sure never to forget it.

The door opened and you snapped out of your reverie, the detective joined by another officer that had been one of the men to participate in your violent arrest. He strode in forcefully, a phone you swiftly recognized as your own held in his hand. The device was hooked to a number of wires and receivers.

“Here, talk to your bitch,” he snapped harshly.

The officer grabbed a handful of your hair and shoved the phone to your ear.

You groaned at the stiff tug on your head and answered confusedly, “...Hello?”

“Baby,” was all Jackson said.

“I’m fine,” you spoke like a well-rehearsed robot, looking up to make eye contact with the man holding your hair in his fist. “They are treating me very well.”

The officer shouted loud enough for your lover to hear, “She’s being a very cooperative cunt, Mr. Wang.”

You bristled, practically feeling Jackson’s wrath through the phone.

“Baby girl, rest assured,” he hissed under his breath and you had never heard his voice devolve into such a growl. “They are all dead men.”

You flashed your teeth in a grin at the man gripping you so roughly and sang, “Yes, Daddy.”

The line clicked dead.

“Damn it,” the officer groaned, releasing you none too gently.

The door swung inward again, causing the man beside you to jump. Whoever had just entered was clearly a superior, because the others bowed deeply.

“Out,” said the stranger with little to no patience, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit.

You watched the two shuffle through the door, metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. It was a relief to be free of them. Though you now had a new enemy to confront.

The interrogator spoke your name in greeting, offered a warm and somewhat reassuring smile, and introduced himself, “I’m Park Jinyoung.”

“Korean,” you mulled in surprise. “What are you doing in Shanghai, Mr. Park?”

He looked barely Jackson’s age, but you already respected him more than the others because of his kind manners. He wasn’t here to play any violent games with you.

“I was about to ask you the same question, Mrs. Wang,” he retorted, pointing at the ring on your left hand.

“I’m not his wife,” you were quick to correct, overlapping your hands to hide the piece of jewelry. It was the most precious thing you owned. You sighed in relief when they hadn’t removed it during your arrest process.

Jinyoung approached and withdrew a key from his pocket, unfastening your cuffs. You caught a glimpse of the gun strapped to his hip and decided not to cross him. Once you were free, he sat down comfortably across from you, unfastening the button of his coat.

You murmured a small thank you and studied him carefully. He was a far different entity than the corrupt detectives.

“I apologize for the unsavory care that has been given to you in here,” Jinyoung said, seemingly genuine. “From what I understand, this is hour five for you.”

You nodded. “Spent the first hour being read my rights. The only word out of my mouth was lawyer. Then, no lawyer in sight, hour two they left me in here to sweat,” you told him as you rubbed your aching wrists. “I didn’t sweat.”

Jinyoung bobbed his head as you spoke, as if he was well aware of all that, adding, “And as I saw, he has already been in contact.”

You sighed. “Not long enough to get a trace.”

Given the officer’s reaction when Jackson hung up, you gathered that much.

Jinyoung smiled. He was almost amused. Opening his notebook to a blank page, he tapped his pen and said, “We both know they won’t get anything from you. You’re not going to crack.”

You tilted your head. “Are you interested in finding a way to break me, Mr. Park?”

Jinyoung was a master tactician, highly respected for his intellect. He had been watching from behind the tinted glass. Your behavior with him was a stark contrast than with the detectives. You had been trained. You were more at ease with him. Jinyoung realized he didn’t put any fear in you. And that was an advantage for him.

Jackson’s words echoed in your mind, “If someone comes in from the outside, a different agency or a different country, he or she will be the real deal. They will have been hunting me for a long time and will see you as a key to finally bringing me down.”

Jinyoung’s delayed response cut through your thoughts, “I’m more interested in how someone like you became involved in this. Level with me. How did you meet the one and only Jackson Wang?”

You shrugged. “Why do you care? It won’t help you find him.”

Jinyoung uncapped his pen, ready to write, and pressed, “Some girls are drawn to men like him. Men with violent, dangerous power.”

“I never knew about his powers,” you shot back vehemently. Was he implying you were insane for loving someone like Jackson?

“I’ve spent the greater portion of my professional career in a cat and mouse game with him,” Jinyoung confessed, trying to smooth your feathers. “Help me get to know him better.”

“You’re the mouse,” you smarted.

Jinyoung glanced up through hair straying into his eyes. With a smirk, he scribbled something at the top of his blank page and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exhaled loudly.

The last of Jackson’s warnings rang in your ear. “If they’re the real deal, buy time. Get a feel for them. Figure out what it is they’re after and how they want to use you. And then, whatever you do, don’t give it to them.”

Glancing down at your nails, noticing one or two had broken in your scuffle during your shady, back alley arrest, you began, “I met him at some ritzy, overpriced hotel. It had been a shit day. Another board meeting of senior partners where no one gave a damn what I had to say. As long as our stocks came out unscathed, they didn’t care if the rest of the world was about to go to hell…”

You had been sitting at the bar, manicured nails drumming on the black marble. The bartender kept a steady flow of red wine coming your way and you sipped your glass in an attempt to clear your head of all its moral conscience.

It was a wonder you had lasted this long and you pondered how much longer you could keep going. You never imagined selling your soul to a corporation, playing with people’s lives. It had all just been numbers and math, at which you excelled, and then the corruption steadily seeped into you.

“Another crisis, Luke,” you told the bartender.

He tossed a cloth over his shoulder and retorted, “Another Tuesday, madame.”

You chortled and put the glass to your lips. “That’s the truth if I ever heard it,” you mumbled bitterly.

You saw the numbers. Numbers were your expertise. The market would crash. Much, much worse than before. Hard-working people would lose their retirements, their livelihoods. Some would never recover. Meanwhile, you and your bosses would roll in cash and the government would cut the banks a giant check to fix the disaster they had created.

Looking at your hands, you marveled how clean they looked for being so stained and filthy.

Luke glanced at the television overhead, where you had asked him to switch to the financial channel. The bell was chiming. The market had closed, deep in the red. No surprise there.

You glared at the screen. They had no idea what was coming tomorrow morning. People worked hard, but greed worked harder.

Luke turned to you, pointing at the coverage, and inquired curiously, “That kind of crisis?”

You tipped your glass toward him for more wine and nodded. “Now is the time to pull out.”

“My pull out game has never been good,” Luke quipped after topping off your drink.

You nearly spat your wine with laughter and your stomach ached. Fuck’s sake, when was the last time you laughed?

“Dammit, Luke. How am I supposed to cut in now?”

You angled to the man who had been seated a few stools down from you.

Luke held up his hands in defense, smirking with satisfaction.

The first thing you noticed about Jackson Wang was his smile. It was warm, undeniably playful, yet something about it put you at ease. Most men in your field had smiles that warned of danger or bad intentions.

Your eyes met and Jackson could see right off the bat you were unimpressed. It had been a rough day and you were in no mood to flirt. So Jackson decided to finesse, which luckily was his specialty.

Turning back to your wine and tasting it on your tongue, you tried not to steal another glance or two at the handsome man at the bar.

“Should I unload my portfolio?” Jackson asked, wanting your attention.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and feigned disinterest, “What’s your pleasure?”

He cocked his head and joked, “I’m surprisingly vanilla.”

You rolled your eyes and deadpanned, “In stocks.”

Jackson recognized that icy tone of a woman who did not have a single fuck to give him and knew he would need to melt you a little. You had caught his eye at the bar, but beautiful women were a commodity in his line of work.

At first he dismissed your glowing skin beneath the bar lights and your big beautiful eyes glistening with unshed tears. You almost hooked him with that tight black dress and the way it hugged your every curve. And your legs, hot damn, keeping his eyes off of those had been even harder.

Then, he heard you speak. You talked with intellect and eloquence, and he was ready to hire you to narrate the rest of his life. He realized you may have some intelligence in that pretty head of yours and that snared his attention.

Because Jackson had learned long ago he was very, very easily bored. And the vapid nonsense that came out of the mouths of the girls he tended to attract with his money just didn’t cut it for him anymore.

The pursuit was on.

“Mostly gold, some silver. A few auto brands,” he replied, attempting to sound humble.

You answered expertly, “Gold and silver will bounce back in the long run. They always do. Some auto manufacturers may not survive, but just the American ones are at risk. And more than likely Uncle Sam will bail them out like last time.”

Jackson winced, but it was for effect. “Bye-bye, Cadillac.”

You chuckled.

Jackson sobered a little, frowning at the television. “Another crash, huh?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” you whispered under your breath, sipping your wine and knowing every time you opened your mouth, you jeopardized your entire company.

In the morning, when the opening bell rang, your firm would unload all of its dirty, worthless stock to unsuspecting buyers, and the market would collapse like clockwork.

Numbers didn’t lie.

“I trust your expertise,” Jackson flirted, voice like silk.

You gave him a sideways glance, not convinced. More than likely he was just trying to get into your pants. “Most men get turned off when I speak with expertise in my field,” you said, running a hand through your hair.

Jackson shook his head and retorted, “I’m not most men.”

You giggled; how predictable. “That’s what they all say.”

But you knew now that he was right.

As the conversation went on, Jackson moved closer and closer. By the time he sat at your side, his presence was a welcome one. After another glass of wine, you started leaning into him.

You talked about everything. Topics shifted from the market to the weather to international travel and finally to your favorite subject, good food. You were never one for small talk. In fact, you hated it. But Jackson spoke like he could match your rhythm.

He didn’t shy away from more complicated discussions. He didn’t bat an eye when you challenged his opinions. He could keep up with a little verbal sparring and seemed to enjoy it as much as you did. And he never tried to dumb you down like so many men before him.

Finally, after you didn’t back away when he moved dangerously close to you, Jackson cut to the chase and teased, “Don’t act like you’re not feeling me.”

You laughed, but there was no weight behind it.

Jackson shuffled closer and murmured, “I see you.”

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you see?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I can’t explain it, but I could try if you wanted me to.”

It had been a long time since you indulged a man to sweet talk you or romance you or even get you into bed with him. You had given up on the opposite sex not long after you began ascending the ladder at work and learned the vast majority of them were threatened by your success.

Jackson was not the least bit intimidated by you. At this point, he was a goddamn unicorn.

“Explain it to me,” you whispered slyly, realizing his lips were mere inches from yours.

Jackson moved even closer and whispered for your ears only, “You’re gravity. You’re a magnet. I can’t stop getting closer.”

You lowered your head, hiding the heat quickly rising behind your cheeks.

Jackson slipped his fingers beneath your chin and tilted you back up to meet his unwavering eyes.

It was the first time he touched you.

“I want you,” he said, a low rumble of a growl in his throat.

Your eyes flickered, faltering under how intensely he looked at you. You wanted desperately to hide how badly his words and voice affected you, and you sneered, “Does that line work?” You had to keep him on his toes in this little dance. You weren’t ready to surrender yet.

Jackson wasn’t going to let you have the upper hand anymore. He knew you were what he wanted and he was coming in for the kill. “You tell me,” he spoke, more aggressive. “You’re the first woman to hear that from me.”

You pouted when his fingers slipped from your chin, satisfied he had made his point. “You’re smooth,” came your reply, a little hesitant from the tension. “I’ll give you that.”

Jackson slouched comfortably on his bar stool and said, “I’ve flashed the watch, the rings. Most girls get very friendly once they’ve seen sparkly rocks.”

You clicked your tongue and snorted. “If you only knew how much money I make.”

Jackson tried another approach. “So I can’t buy your affections?”

With a shake of your head, you crooned, “Sadly, not for sale.”

“Fine,” Jackson said, noncommittal and rather abrupt.

You panicked. It sounded like he was about to throw in the towel. Your heart began to beat a little faster against your ribs.

Jackson gulped what was left of his drink and set the glass back down loudly on the bar. Adjusting his tie, Jackson rose to his feet and peered down at you, whispering, “Tell me you’re not feeling me and I’ll go. And you’ll never have to see me again.”

That was not a welcome thought.

At your silence, Jackson pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to Luke. “Mine and the lady’s tabs, pal,” he said, driving the last nail into the coffin.

You reached out and grabbed his sleeve without hesitation, gazing up at him with naive eyes. You had no idea then what you were getting yourself into.

“Don’t…,” you whispered bashfully, cheeks flushing again.

Jackson moved back to your side, a victorious smile on his face.

You saw his grin and chuckled, realizing you’d been beaten in the game.

Jackson cupped your cheek and leaned in with confidence, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Your lashes fluttered. He smelled good, ridiculously good. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

Jackson resisted the urge to slip his hands in your hair and kiss you like he really wanted. Your skin was soft; so soft he wanted to trace his lips over every inch of you and write his name with his tongue across your body.

You managed to hold onto some semblance of self-control throughout the elevator ride. The tension was thick. The air was heavy. No words passed between either of you. And you stood at opposite corners of the elevator.

Jackson led you down the hallway, your hand tucked inside his. The moment he stopped at door 309, the two of you were on each other.

“You’ve got some nerve getting me turned on like this,” you teased, panting softly.

Jackson’s lips were on your neck, his arms around your waist. He crushed you between his body and the wall, and you couldn’t be happier. After that comment, he pulled back to look into your eyes and smirked, nipping at your lips.

You took his face in your hands and smashed your lips on his. It went without saying that you really liked kissing Jackson. It was all you wanted to do for the foreseeable future. He tasted of liquor and really bad choices.

Jackson wedged a knee between your thighs and made room for his hips to fit between. You moaned into his mouth, tempted to lock your ankles behind his back, but rather conflicted about it. Were you going to hook up with him? Your first thought was an emphatic yes.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders and back, feeling taut muscles underneath his expensive suit. He was hard like iron, thick thighs bracing you against the wall. His hands wandered too, exploring your body, finally able to touch those curves.

Despite his hold on you and your tongue down his throat, Jackson managed to pull the keycard from his back pocket and swipe it over the panel. You heard the familiar beep of the hotel door unlocking, followed by Jackson pushing it open.

Mumbling against his mouth, you grabbed his wrist and pulled, blurting, “We can’t.”

“What…,” Jackson exclaimed, his lips red. “Why?”

“Because,” you huffed, letting your head fall back against the wall in defeat. “If I go in there, we’re gonna fuck.”

The words alone made a certain something twitch in his pants. Jackson fought a chuckle and gave you a glance over. You were already disheveled and breathless, and he hadn’t even touched you yet. “Is that so?” he taunted, expression full of boyish energy.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, still at war with yourself. Then, you leaned into his chest and collided your lips back to his.

Jackson smiled against your mouth, tightening his arm around your waist and meeting the rush of your kisses. He took them to mean you changed your mind and swiped the key card again.

Hearing the chime of the door, you grabbed the lapel of his suit with both hands and broke away. “No, we can’t.”

Jackson laughed, amused by you. “Okay. Okay,” he relented.

“Sorry, but…,” you trailed, still trapped in his arms. “I’ve never fucked anyone I just met.”

“Me neither,” he replied softly.

You cocked a brow. No one gave a damn if men had sex with every human that passed their sight. For that reason, you were inclined to believe him.

Jackson pulled the door closed and pressed the sweetest of kisses to your lips. When he stopped, your eyes fluttered open and you peered up at him.

“Gravity,” was all he said, chuckling to himself.

Yeah, you felt it, too.

Running your fingers into his hair and tugging gently, you ordered, “Keep kissing me.”

Jackson didn’t need to be told twice.

The rushed, hurried kisses were over. Now that the two of you weren’t sprinting to the bedroom, you could focus on how your tongues danced in each other’s mouths. Jackson stroked a hand down your thigh and hooked your leg over his hip, needing to be as close as humanly possible to you.

When his lips moved back to your neck, you rolled your eyes and the catch in your breath almost sent him to his knees.

“Can I take you to breakfast in the morning?” he asked between kisses.

“Yes,” you replied, fingers pressed to his shoulders.

Jackson proceeded to suck a mark of possession beneath your ear. “And dinner tomorrow evening?”

You were out of your mind, insane with lust and desire. Sweat was beginning to gather beneath your dress, courtesy of the fire burning inside him. “Absolutely.”

Jackson licked the bruise he was making, tasting your skin. “How about the day after that?”

You groaned in frustration. He was making it fucking impossible. “And the day after that. Just don’t stop kissing me,” you whined, bringing his face back to yours for another kiss.

You blinked your eyes rapidly, dismayed to find you weren’t in Jackson’s arms, but still caged inside the grey room. Grasping the ring on your left hand, you spun it around - a nervous tick, but it was vaguely comforting. The ring had been a gift on your first anniversary. Inscribed along the inside of the band were the words, never stop kissing me.

It was the closest Jackson had ever come to confessing his love for you. Slipping the ring on your finger, the finger generally reserved for wedding vows, Jackson had said, “So every man knows you’re spoken for.”

Jinyoung let his gaze fall from your face to your hands, noting how you turned the gold band around your finger to soothe yourself. It was human nature, to cling to something sentimental when under duress.

You noticed where his eyes had fallen and quickly covered your hand. His expression was one of scrutiny and belied interest, and you deflected, “Alright, I told you how we met. Makeout session included. Tell me what you hope to get from that.”

Jinyoung replied without hesitation, “I want to catch him. I want to put him away forever.”

A bitter taste filled your mouth. “I will never help you do that.”

“You already are.”

You blinked.

Jinyoung leaned back in his chair, at ease when he explained, “I can keep you here indefinitely. We wait for him to crawl out of his hole.”

You shook your head vehemently. “He won’t.”

“He won’t trade his life for yours,” Jinyoung questioned, seemingly shocked.

“He…,” you paused with indecision. “I don’t know.”

The cold, hard truth was, you didn’t. There was a part of Jackson’s life he never shared with you. The life that was centered around his powers.

But you knew Jackson took great pride in what he had built. He came from nothing, was told his whole life he would never amount to anything, and he had destroyed all the odds stacked against him. He not only beat the game, he changed it forever.

“You’re in here, ready to give up everything for him,” Jinyoung’s voice faded into the background.

“Am I?” you questioned, lost in your memories.

The first time Jackson made love to you, he revealed himself to you and said something that was burned into your mind forever. The two of you were naked, exposed and vulnerable to the other. So many little nothings had been spoken while endless promises and vows were written into each other’s skin.

Then, in a moment of stillness, Jackson cradled your face and drowned himself in your eyes. He called your name and you stared up at him, hinged on his every word.

“Do you know what they say,” he breathed, chest heaving. “About playing with fire?”

“Are you going to burn me?” you asked him innocently.

“I burn everything I touch,” Jackson told you, filling with sadness. “And only I survive.”

“I’ll be your Phoenix then,” you whispered, bringing your fingers to rake teasingly down his back over the tattoo of the immortal firebird inked into his skin.

Jackson smiled and shifted on top of you to take you again. “You are the closest I will ever get to heaven…”

And you watched in disbelief as the dark brown of his irises turned to scorching red.

Jinyoung called your name. He knew you were somewhere far away in your head.

You blinked through oncoming tears.

“Do you know what he is? Do you have any idea what he’s done? Do you even know what they call him?”

You heard the rumors and read the headlines, just like everyone else. He wasn’t the only one; these men with strange powers. Some said they were harbingers of the end times.

“The Phoenix,” you interjected.

Jinyoung frowned in contempt.

“Because he burns everything and everyone in his path,” you finally confessed. Whatever gets in his way.

“One day, he’ll raze cities to the ground.” Jinyoung’s tongue was a razor. “Did you think you wouldn’t get burned?”

I asked for it, you admitted to yourself. I fell in love with the villain.

Reaching down to pick up the photo still on the table of you swept up in Jackson’s arms, you sighed in acceptance of fate, “Moth to the flame.”

Somewhere out in the night, as Shanghai finally drifted to sleep, Jackson sat in the backseat of his tinted car, gripping the phone so tight he was sure it would snap at any minute.

There would be hell to pay for those that had taken you. Jackson already identified each of them. But in the meantime, he could only sit and think. Getting revenge was easy. Getting you back was considerably harder.

He had to stay ahead of the game. They took you for a purpose. You wouldn’t roll on him, Jackson was sure of that. You would never give them the satisfaction. But they would try to use you as leverage and Jackson couldn’t risk everything he had built. It would make the entire city fall down on top of him.

If he tried to rescue you, then the whole world would know he had a weakness and you would never be safe again for as long as you lived. If he didn’t, then the corrupt cops could put you in the hands of enemies that were much worse to make a bloody example of you.

Jackson grit his teeth. He knew this day would come, when he would finally have to confront his feelings for you. He swore to never let his heart out of its cage, but it had escaped and fled to the palm of your hand. There was a reason he never told you he loved you.

He couldn’t admit it to himself. Love was meant only for humans.

“What do I fucking do?” he cried out in his mother tongue, wringing his hands before hiding his face behind them. He needed you in his arms, needed to hold you again.

But he would lose everything.

The phone chimed and Jackson opened the text.

Call it off. Or she drowns first.

Jackson shook with rage and opened his hand, irises turning crimson as flames appeared on his palm. Then, he closed his fist, snuffing them out.

next chapter →

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#got7 fanfiction #jackson wang #got7 smut #jackson smut #jackson wang smut #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #got7 au #jackson wang fanfiction #jackson wang fanfic #jackson wang fic #jackson wang au #got7 scenario #got7 reaction #got7 imagine

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droidrights · 3 years

Note

For your writing prompt... A scene from always red or stay the black but in Cals POV?

Ask and you shall receive! Thanks so much for the prompt, Anon! This was fun!

Sometimes Pink

This here is the scene at the end of Chapter 9 of Always Red where Cal first wakes up after the escape from Nur.

2nd person/ present tense like the rest of Always Red except Cal is “you”.

Inquisitor Cal Kestis x Jedi Reader

Words: 1918

Warnings: Description of Injury and near death

“Now you'll be what I make you.” Her voice rings in your head. Somehow over the roar of the flames, over the howling sea wind and even over the crash of thunder, you hear her claim you in a whisper.

Laid flat on your back, soaked through to your bones, you blink the raindrops from your eyes and through bleary vision you dare to take in the sight of her. Writhed in the towering flames that engulf the Fortress Inquisitorius she stands over you in victory; small strings of blue electricity blink between her flexing fingers. The memory of those fingers pressed on the side of your face, even to deliver a brain rattling Force blast, becomes something you find yourself clinging to. Those hands, you've thought, the things those hands could do.

It's the last thing you recall before things go black.

Fuzzy and indistinct, you imagine the brush of those deadly fingers over your forehead. Most certainly imagined, in a moment burst with brightness shining behind your eyelids. Blazing and uncomfortable before the comfort of the black seeps back in.

You've always hoped that when you died your spirit would scatter, made to rejoin the living Force. There would be a loss of consciousness surely, a kind of oblivion. Force users are taught to believe they live on through connectivity to the Force and they do but...not as they were. You consider that this could be death. The Black, this endless float peppered with visions of this and that. Her. Could be worse.

Later you are slowly stirred to consciousness by the astringent scent of bacta gel stinging your nostrils, and more gentle touching though less imagined this time. When your eyelids become unstuck you spy a world much different from the one you had been imagining.

In a heartbeat the comfort of the black is banished. The place that allowed you to drift carelessly and linger on your memories of thunder and lightning evaporate in an instant, replaced with an air of the urgency to live. In the here and now you are a prisoner, confirmed bu the metallic clank of durasteel cuffs at their limit. Blazing overhead lights are blinding and your instincts are the only thing you have, aside from an intense throbbing ache on the right side of your head. You have survived many times before by allowing your instincts to take control and so your rational mind takes a backseat to an animal impulse toward survival by any means necessary.

There is a muffled crack as you fold your thumb inward, making one hand more amenable to slipping its restraint. It hurts, of course it hurts but you tell yourself it doesn't.

A startled medic bounces from his seat at witnessing his patient wake so suddenly and commit violence on himself. With one free hand, you bolt upright and the twi'lek gingerly, mistakenly presses his hands on your shoulders. No touching.

“Be calm, you mustn't aggriva-!” the twi'lek's words are cut short when you raise your open fist. His breathing become raspy and short as you draw your fingers closer and closer together.

The decision to attack had been simple for you. It always is. What you hadn't known is that you had been asleep for the past four days in recovery from grievous wounds. Against his better judgment, Byt Ilan agreed to treat your injuries as best he could, despite the fact that he witnessed your role in the battle that had lead all of you to this point. Despite the fact that you had been an active member in the institution that tortured and imprisoned him, because he is good. Truly good.

Byt claws at his throat uselessly as you get to your feet. To you there is nothing, no one, other than this obstacle before you. The only sound that matters is the hiss and wheeze that escapes this twi'lek's lips.

It's not even that much pressure, honestly. To think that most living things have a soft little spot for you to squeeze and wrench the life from. It is both dazzling and intoxicating to exercise this power. Your vision tunnels and you move with the intent and purpose of a predator that has not been unconscious for days but waiting. Your trembling fingers, broken thumb included, curls into a tight fist as you move to cross the room.

In your battle fervor, you fail to release the restraint fastened to your other wrist. Your fervent pursuit of the medic causes the heavy metal gurney to overturn. Your balance is thrown immediately and the thing brings you back a ways. There is a loud and muted pop and you know right away that your arm has become dislocated from your shoulder. It's happened several times before, each instance more unpleasant than the last.

Byt's legs scramble in the air haplessly, far from the ground. He knows he's near finished when a darkness begins to creep in from the edges of his vision. Until he is suddenly dropped to the ground like a sack of grain.

Years of training within the Empire has given you the singularity of mind that allows you to pour your focus into your goals, and exactly nothing else, until they are achieved. Discomfort, pain, your very limbs are second only to your gain. In this moment nothing matters beyond dispatching the nearest jailer.

Byt uses the brief pause in your assault to scream for help, though the wracked sound produced by his broken throat is nothing like the alarm he had intended. When he cries out a second time it is for horror at watching you drag the overturned bed, dislocated arm and all, in his direction, renewing the fight.

Byt struggles to his feet in time to be hefted again into the air. When his back hits the opposite wall of the small cargo area the twi'lek loses a lungful of air he could not spare. Your pupils triple in size as victory grows nearer and your connection to the dark side spreads its wings inside you.

“Cal, no!” A voice cries out. Y/N arrives in a flurry and immediately places herself between you and your opponent. You don't see her. There is only you and Byt Ilan's final breaths.

“Cal, stop right now!” She roars again, this time with more menace.

You hear nothing, you see nothing. You are dead to the world but for the quiet symphony of blood vessels popping in the twi'lek's eyes. The hard thump of his heart against his ribs, so rapid and vital until the blessed moment of silence that will follow. Any second now.

A loud crack echoes off the walls of the hold and every nerve on your face lights up in a spark when she strikes you with the flat of her hand. You recognize the feel of that hand across your face instantly. A bright stinging throb blossoms across your cheek and the hard contact of skin on skin breaks the kill's hold over you. The things those hands can do.

Blindsided by the sensation, you loose your grip on the poor creature by unclenching your fingers. He hits the ground hard and his breath does not return immediately. The twi'lek's rosy pink cheeks and lips have turned gray

More and more of your surroundings come to light. Gathering crew and guests become shadows around this drama in the cargo hold. Someone rushes to the medic's side and slaps him hard between the shoulder blades until he gulps in a shuddering breath. Another figure moves in the space around you but goes unnoticed. Your tunnel vision has fixated on someone new.

After the dazzling white light clears your vision you still can't quite believe your eyes. You see her before you the way she looks in your memories, the way she looks in your dreams. Framed in fire, windswept, tired, bloody and gloriously furious.

“Y/N?” you whisper, confused. You blink hard and this time she is a more realistic version of herself. Still tired, still angry. Your hand stays hefted in the air, unsteady.

You don't believe what your eyes are telling you. You died and this is a sick joke, which normally you might appreciate, but for the look on her face. You would never understand the combination of emotions you see there. Your shoulder, your head, your hand, they all pulse in various octaves of pain. It's disorienting.

It's not her, it can't be. You lost and she killed you. Shaky, you lurch forward keeping your hand outstretched. You have to be sure.

There is a swift movement from the shadow behind you and in a flash there is a sting in your neck. So minor compared to the other aches, throbs and stings but you were unprepared for the suddenness of it.

A normally welcomed old companion, the blackness, creeps in again. Your heart cries out to wait, just one more second while you figure this out. While you reach out to her.

Before you hit the ground the very tip of your longest finger connects with her chin, just below her lip, before trailing its way down her chest and belly. The hem of her shirt snaps up when the crook of your finger tugs and releases it.

As your head hits the metal flooring you decide it really was Y/N. You are indeed still living and for some reason she had decided to spare you in the rain on Nur. The fool.

You've tried to tell her since Zeffo that she's yours, from the second you saw her on Bracca, whether she knew it or not. When she inched closer to you step by step, siding against the Ninth Sister she was yours. When you touched her Master's lightsaber and saw her as a frightened and defenseless padawan she was yours. Hands and feet fastened together, jammed in the back of your TIE fighter she was yours. Until you handed her over to the Empire...and she was theirs.

What you had not anticipated were all the myriad moments that led to you belonging utterly and madly to her. Starting with the hard resolve in her face when she went for your throat in your first rain-washed clash. Again when she teased you in the industrial caverns of that Zeffo mountain. Especially when she was bubbling over with wrath and vengeance even lying weak on the floor of her cell, imagining the demolition of Imperial control. You were more hers then and completely when she made good on her promise by conjuring destruction from the air like a goddess. It's like you never had a choice.

That's a lie. It's a choice you've made repeatedly. You embraced it, fought it, misinterpreted it but you never denied it. Fool that you are.

Y/N will be your undoing, she makes you weaker than anything the Empire has put you through and nothing is scarier than to know that you will lose every time.

Yes, you tried again to kill her but it's only because you are the one who does what others will not. It was your final attempt at releasing you both from this thing. Y/N is strong but not stronger than what's between the two of you. You tried to be but it turns out you aren't either.

Now you are doomed to each other. For your part at least, you commit yourself willingly to the flames.

She really should have killed you.

#always ask #always red #stay the black #jedi fallen order #calquisitor #cal valeska #writing prompt #thank you for the suggestion #star wars jfo #star wars jedi: fallen order #inquisitor cal x reader #he is a puppy #cal kestis

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remmushound · 3 years

Text

Curse of the Clans part 35!@scentedcandlecryptid

Content warning!! Blood, anger, minor injury.

The very sudden departure of the turtles left April feeling alone and vulnerable. The lair seemed painfully empty, even with the usual drone of Splinter’s cartoons, so the first chane April got to go to the surface, she took. She made up the excuse to visit the post office; she was expecting mail, after all, and more importantly it was a good distance away from the lair, so she could take her sweet time getting back. She didn't expect the letter to be there so soon, but it was. Opening the letter, she was so confident and sure that the position would be hers-- she had planned everything out so perfectly! She opened the letter the moment she got outside, too eager and excited to wait. Then she wished she had waited when she started to read the short letter of rejection.

“O’Neil!”

April looked up and saw Cassandra Jones making her way across the street, expertly dodging cars without a care as to using the crosswalk that was less than a few feet away. A few of the cars honked, but Cassandra didn't care beyond flipping a few of them off on her way across.

“CJ, did you not notice the crosswalk less than two feet away?” April gave an exasperated sigh.

“I noticed it! But I also noticed you, so I had to choose.”

“Did you? Did you really?”

April still couldn’t believe how much Cassandra had changed over the last few months. She was starting to grow out her hair; though it was only a few inches, she was certainly showing improvement. The oily, black scruff was held out of her face by a black bandana. April wasn’t sure she could ever get over the kunoichi wearing street clothes instead of her normal ninja uniform, even if Cassandra hadn’t worn it since that last stand against Shredder. She still had her red mask, however, wearing it over her mouth like she always did. Without the constant strain that training and patrols and battles put on her body, Cassandra seemed brighter and healthier. The muscles built from years of hardened labor were still defined, but now joined with some soft fat that was starting to form around her hips and stomach.

As April started to walk, so too did Cassandra, eager to learn about what she was sure was her friend's victory. April was smiling now, so that must have been a good sign, right?

“So I see you got your letter~” Cassandra practically purred, “When’s your first shift?”

April shifted her face mask higher up her nose, bending it a little further so it would stop fogging up her glasses. She couldn’t think of a verbal response that wouldn’t leave her in tears, so she just passed the letter over to Cassandra so she could read it. Cassandra only managed to get a few lines down before she gave a loud gasp that made April flinch.

“REJECTION?! No no no no! This has to be some sort of mix up!”

“It’s not…”

“Maybe some other April O’Neil applied for the job and this letter was meant to go to her!”

“What are the chances of that?” April sucked a shaky breath between her teeth.

“It could happen!” Cassandra insisted.

“WELL, IT DIDN'T!”

April hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but she did. It was loud enough for some of the closer pedestrians to stop and look before they continued on their way, and enough to make Cassandra stop dead in her tracks with a look not unlike a wounded puppy. Then her hurt expression turned to wide eyes as her gaze turned to April’s chest and shoulder as both seemed to glow bright in a green fire. Even the dark of April’s eyes held a sudden ring of emerald, if only for a second.

April didn't notice the flash. She felt an uncomfortable heat searing through her chest and her shoulder ached worse than anything else, but she didn't care. She took a deep breath and as her chest raised it only served to further feed the fire burning through her heart and lungs.

“It… didn't.” April kept walking.

Cassandra stayed where she was at first. Then she noticed that April was rapidly disappearing from her sights and she hurried to keep up.

***

April didn't know what was happening to her. One minute she was fine and getting ready for bed, and the next she was crumpled over, clutching her chest as gumdrop-sized tears forced their way out of her eyes. She saw endless green stained with blood and then she was back in the lair. Then with another bolt of intensity, the pain show from her chest to her stomach and her hands moved to clutch the new area of agony. The lair was on fire, she was sure it was, and the orange heat licked around the walls and smoke forced its way down her throat… but then it was gone, and the floor was cold, but she was not. Her skin glistened with a thick coat of sweat that dripped down her arms and drenched her locks flat to her face. It wasn’t right. Leonardo said the pain should’ve gone away by now, but it was only getting worse! And now she had to wait weeks before he could come back to help her.

April let herself enjoy the coolness of the floor for just a moment longer before she used the bed to pull herself to a kneeling position. She had to pause for a breather from the strain, resting her head on the comforter and using it to wipe some of the perspiration off her face. Then she sucked in another breath and held it as she straightened the rest of the way. She was undeniably thirsty, and right now she wasn’t sure she could even sleep if she tried. Walking usually helped to get rid of the pain, if only for a short while. So that’s what she was going to do.

When she got to the curtain that acted as the door to the kitchen, she stopped. She could hear voices, which wasn’t too unexpected. When Cassandra had been told that the turtles would be gone for two weeks, she had immediately offered to stay at the lair so that Splinter wouldn’t get too lonely. Splinter was more than willing to let her stay with the promise of a friend to converse with. April couldn’t help but to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Blew up at me in the streets!” Cassandra was saying, and April immediately knew it was about her.

“She was probably just upset that she keeps getting rejected, Cassandra.” Splinter offered, “I know the feeling all too well from my acting days.”

“No, Splints-- she literally blew up! Her chest and shoulder were like… like green fire! And so were her eyes!”

April’s eyes went wide. Green fire? She looked at her affected areas and bit her lip.

“She’s been getting worse, ever since Shredder--”

April didn't know what it was about that sentence that made her furious, but she couldn’t ignore it. She threw open the curtains and announced herself to the duo quite violently, making both Splinter and Cassandra snap their heads to look at her like startled animals.

“April!” Splinter gawked, “I thought you went to bed!”

“I got thirsty, sue me!” April snarled in such a way that Splinter recoiled away from her. “You would’ve just loved for me to stay in bed so you could talk about me all night, wouldn’t you?!”

“April--” Cassandra tried.

April didn't care to listen. “Well, whatever you have to say about me, you can say it to my face!”

Cassandra and Splinter looked at each other, neither of them seeming willing to be the one to talk next. With a hushed and quick encouragement from Splinter, Cassandra finally stood up.

“April, we’re really worried about you--”

April didn't stick around to hear it. She threw the curtains shut as hard as she could as she stormed off, tears returning to her eyes, though these were of rage and not pain. She needed to do something, to blow off some steam before she did something that might hurt Splinter or Cassandra.

April found herself in the dojo with no real intention of what she wanted to do. She was blinded by her tears, but her body guided her first to the weapons cabinet to collect her bat and then to one of the many dummies that lined the left side of the dojo. April wasn’t even sure where Donatello kept getting them!

She swung at the dummy, but the impact was hardly felt as her mind grew wings and took her further and further away from the actions of her body. She wasn't hiding this thing as well as she had thought-- she still didn't know what it even was. And if Splinter and Cassandra were already talking behind her back then April had no trouble believing that the brothers were too. Her friends. All her classmates at school. They were all talking about her behind her back and laughing at her and making fun of her-- she knew they were!

When April came back down to earth and out of the dissociative rage, she had to push her hair out of her face because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The dummy laid broken and beaten in front of her, shattered in several different places with wood splintered and stuffing spilling out. For a moment, all she could do was stare at it before her better judgement kicked in and she quickly fell to cleaning up the mess she had caused. They were talking bad about her already, she didn't need them adding unnecessary violence to the list of things to mock about her!

April stopped. Her hands were shaking so badly that every piece of scrap she picked up just fell right back down. So she stopped her attempts and simply stared at her hands, both of them hurting and one cut from the violence of her actions. She pressed her thumb into the wound and winced as a small amount of blood squeezed out of it.

“What is wrong with me…?”

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barnesandco · 4 years

Text

White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

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#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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imnotwolverine · 3 years

Text

The Englishman JACK - CHAP 1

Chap 1 The Name Is Jack | Chap 2 >

Summary: Jack travels to his new employer and Bunny tries to get away.

Word count: 4.657 (17 min. read)

Disclaimers: Strong language, misogyny, mention of relationship with great age gap, lots of cigarettes and “the thrill of the chase”.

Call Me Jack

Lipstick stains and cigarette buds were all that was left of her. The woman who made him into a man. The room he stood in now felt strangely unwelcoming. Like he was a stain himself. Black and bold in this lavish palace of beige and gold, on the top floor of the Parisian Grande.

The smog of cigar smoke and traffic jams was rising up through the ceiling-height windows, starting yet another day in this crazy paradise called Paris. The city had somehow always felt pompous to him, just like this apartment. Buffed gold furniture, heavy beige curtains, the scent of patchouli and sex lingering deep in its essence. It was the french way, she would have said. But she was no longer here. And he was not here to stay.

Thumbing over the precious jewels that had once graced her stretched out earlobes and wrinkled swan neck, he remembered the time he had accidentally teared one of these off. She had simply laughed at his eagerness. But he had felt great shame, crawling around on the beige carpet to look for one of the missing pearls.

I’ll buy a new one, my boy.

My boy. Years had passed since then. Since that moment. And she had made her boy into a man.

All he now had to do, was avenge her.

It was the same thing each and every morning, it seemed. The metal bullet shells chinked as they were cleaned away by the butler on the next terrace. With heavy strokes of the broom the morning silence was broken. But the world didn’t seem to mind. All was quiet. The birds were hushed, the sun was struggling and wisps of mist drifted lazily over the rolling Tuscan hills. Like the Italians themselves, nothing here seemed to be eager to get started with the new day.

Even the three bodyguards that were stationed on the far edges of the porch seemed to be more asleep than awake. Dressed in their sharp black suits they rose from the mists like great Greek statues, squared shoulders turned to stare out in the distance. What they were looking at exactly, was anybody’s guess; for the next 10 miles or so, the land was pretty much entirely owned by Bunny’s family, the Maniari’s.

Sighing quietly, Bunny sat back in her black and white cushioned chair, making the mists curl away for a moment. The northern porch hardly had the best view; a large wall hid most of the gorgeous landscape. But it was all she was allowed in terms of “freedom” as she had her breakfast session out here in the morning chill. As usual she was dressed to a tee, floral blue sundress and pretty magazine-style hair indicating she had been up at least a few hours already.

She was so very different from her family, who wouldn’t wake before the sun was high and the remnants of last night’s “hunting games” were cleaned and cleared. In fact she was..bored. Was a woman of her station even allowed to be bored? Here be Bunny, the ridiculously rich and perfectly cared for mobster misses! Bunny, the woman who had it all but wanted even more! She snickered to herself. Would the wax melt off her wings if she too would try to touch the sun? Just out of mere curiosity whether it would hurt? Would she drown in the seas and for once be done with this? This..this...ugh.

Knowing she was no Icarus by any means - it was the lack of waxen wings on her back, she figured, she flicked back some of her brown locks. The men who stood on the far ends of the porch seemed truly dazed today. A rough night perhaps? Having finished her last bite of marmalade on toast - also so very un-italian, she tapped the ash of her cigarette onto the ashtray next to her plate.

Would they notice if she’d fly off? It was a good question to pose in a world where men turned a blind eye on so many things. Squinting her eyes, Bunny took another long suck of the ashen delight between her fingertips. These men truly did seem blind. Or at least sleepy. Heads were hanging slightly limp and from the soft beeps coming from Number One’s walkie talkie, it was clear he was definitely not paying attention.

Her father had once said that these men were stationed near her for safekeeping. But Bunny knew better. She knew they were just as much here to keep her from running off. Away from this golden cage with its marble floors and far too expensive crystal chandeliers. But these poor men couldn’t help it either. They probably had played a late night of poker with Big - something you simply couldn’t win even if you had all the good cards in your hand. Life simply wasn’t fair like that. Not here at least.

Quietly slipping from her chair, her dress brushing through the mists, Bunny snuck back inside - to get out.

These dresses are only getting shorter, huh? With a devious little smirk Jack settled back in the cushioned airplane seat. He watched as one of the flight attendants shuffled by with her demure little smile. The plane was about to take off, heavy engines rumbling on the taxi strip. But first, he’d let one of these sky angels do the honours. And, looking up, apparently the lady of choice had come to her calling. Italian presumably, he saw her lips curl in a semi-flirty smile.

‘Good afternoon.’ - Her French accent was horrid. ‘May I please assist you with your seatbelt?’ She was already leaning over before Jack could object. Not that he would. Settling back a little more, he let her tiny hands clutch around the metal clasp. It was a challenge to get the thing tugged around his luggy hips. But he didn’t protest as she bent over a little more. If anything, he let the opportune moment run its course as the taxiing plane rolled over a pesky little bump. Enough for him to bump into her in consequence, the little accident followed up by a polished act of surprise on his end. A warm, steadying hand on her hip was all it took to turn the woman into a blushing, flustered mess. She chuckled and apologised with that same awful little accent.

Not that he cared. With a suave, calm smile he settled back, thanking her in perfect Italian. And with that the deal was sealed; he had ensured that this flight would be just as delightful as this woman’s dress implied..

You know what they say. Can’t let a good thing get away.

‘Found anything?’

The two men stepped into the beams of the car’s headlights. The night around them was muddled black, heavy rain clouds obscuring the skies. It was one of those moments where a seeing man could feel blind. Though these men didn’t seem to be concerned with the dark. Sharing a handshake, muddied feet slushing in the red earth, they greeted one another. One of them showed a slight limp.

‘No -’ The limping man coughed raggedly. ‘Nothing.’

‘And the footprints?’

‘Dead end.’ His cough continued and he spat on the ground, bloody mucus seeping into the crimson soil.

‘Brother..’

‘We’ll find ‘em. Just give me more time.’

The other wished to object, but a soft crack in the bushes on their left disturbed them. Someone was there. An intruder. Hidden in that pesky veil of night. With a grumble the healthy man grabbed for his gun. But the limping men stopped him.

‘Brother? Let me..!’

A church bell rang in the distance, silencing them. Twelve times the heavy copper tolled, announcing midnight, and the end of their fleeting meeting.

‘Whomever it was, we can’t chase ‘em.’ The limping man sighed. ‘And rain’s comin’.’ He coughed again and grasped the other man’s sleeve. ‘Let’s go. Ghosts aren’t worth bullets.’

Was there something like the thrill of being chased? Bunny clutched the steering wheel of her trusty blue cake tin on wheels, squealing with excitement as it slipped in the puddles of last night’s thunderstorm.

Much like the weather - the air now clean and fresh, she felt a renewed energy in her bones. This could very well be the time she’d succeed. The time she’d finally get away.

She had omitted all the non-essentials. She had learned by now that it was key to not act suspicious. Learn the patterns and only then take the leap.

The last time had failed catastrophically. Apparently she had been too obvious with her packed suitcase at the ready. Not even a lie about a personal safety plan with all the gang violence going on was enough to dissuade her father from her intentions. She could still feel the ache in her buttocks from the spanking she had received.

So yes. She had learned. She had learned to be more inventive. And now here she was. Smirking. With a sideglance she looked to the backseat of her trusty little Fiat. A small designer bag lay there discarded. Barely noticeable to the male eye, but packing much more than just the usual feminine essentials. In fact this bag held none of the usual make-up items and hair spray. It held passports, roadmaps, money and a well-thought out escape plan. She was ready. She was. Right?

Clutching the steering wheel a little tighter, she looked back at the road. And just in time. With a panicked foot on the brakes she slid through the mud, barely managing to evade the unamused looking vintager who had just stepped onto the road after inspecting his vineyard.

‘Fuck.’ Bunny muttered quietly, keeping the slower speed long enough to raise an apologising hand at the man. It was the new one. The new vintager, the other one deceased some years ago. The other wine makers had refused to take on this piece of land. And none would say it aloud, but the reasoning was simple; it was the only small trip of land that separated the Maniari estate from the Luchesse estate. Two mobster powerhouses trying their best to overrule the other; you simply didn’t want to be in the middle of that.

And now Bunny had nearly killed the one person who had dared to take on the challenge.

Trying her best to calm her racing heart, Bunny looked back to the road ahead of her. She couldn’t make a mistake now. Not when she was so close to getting out. So close to freedom. Because that’s what she wanted, right? She was ready, right? Clutching the steering wheel she pushed the gas pedal a little deeper again, forgetting for a hot minute to look back. And in doing so, she missed one essential little cue in the shape of a rushing car behind her.

The thrill of the chase was back.

Jack gritted his teeth. Not even the lovebites in his neck or the linger of sweet perfume could calm his nerves. He was hours away from Florence. Hours away from pretty city women, good coffee and proper infrastructure - the roads all red mud around here.

Jack was also not sure whether this rental he had received from that car dealer was set up for failure, or that it was just misfortune that had killed the engine. Either way: he was stuck. Stuck in an idyllic picture of green winelands covered in a thick blanket of ethereal mists. A dreamscape, the likes he had seen on postcards sent by his good friend Luigi. Those cards had often described trivial things, until a week ago, when Jack received a request. And if it weren’t for their friendship, it would be for his own devices that Jack found this trip to Tuscany to be a perfect way to spend some time. One plane ride, car drive and engine failure he was here. Stuck as a bug in a rug. Or in this case stuck with a car in the mud.

‘Fuck.’ He grumbled, turning off the radio that was bleating on about some local seismic activity. He wished right now he had accepted Luigi’s offer to have him chauffeured to the estate. But Jack was a proud man, and a man of resolve. Besides, he enjoyed driving in most cases. It gave a sense of freedom, of power. Engines rumbling, the windows rolled down.

But that would be for another time. First he had to find a new means of transportation.

Swinging open the door he stepped out into the morning mists, nostrils flaring out to breath in the biting cold that licked around his heated skin. Perhaps he shouldn’t have worn his fine calf leather shoes, he mused, looking down at the mud splatters as they painted a red dotted work of art over the recently polished noses.

Gritting his teeth again he cued a cigarette to his lips and turned around the back of the car, picking up his suitcase and hat before starting his way down to the nearest village.

Bunny knew she had failed when she turned the roundabout. With a flash of black and white the sleek suit of Number Four was hard to miss from behind his steering wheel. And he was far too close for comfort. Especially with him driving the Mercedes-Benz, its engine rumbling like a dark horse to match his steely gaze.

Taking a swift turn, Bunny changed plans. Straight roads were omitted and made way for the local Saturday market, her car soon disappearing in the hustle and bustle of cows, chickens, cabbages and coffee.

Nervous hands thrummed on her steering wheel as she moved at a snail’s pace through the meandering crowds. It was terribly busy, and that made the market both a blessing and a curse all in one. Old nans with hunchbacks, young children playing soccer, farmers marketing their produce; any other time this would have been a lovely place to be. But right now Bunny had no time to wait for the cows before her to cross the street. And so with a quick flick of the wrist she escaped her car, bag in her hand as her swift feet zipped past the meaty backsides of two brown cows before she vanished into the misty morning mayhem.

Her heartbeat was racing. Fluttering like a little bird caught in too small a cage. Sweaty hands clutched onto the bag in her arms as she apologised to a leather faced man she bumped into, his large chest already puffing up before he turned to scold her for not “using her godgiven eyes”.

‘Scusi!’ She scampered away, little mules clicking on the paved village square. She had made sure that, though practical, her clothes wouldn’t have raised any suspicion on her family’s part. And with her always wearing something rather fashionable, today was no exception. Her calf-length blue summer dress waved around her legs as she brushed past the flower stall sales men, their hands waving around in the air to catch her attention.

‘Miss! Miss! Why the hurry?! Good morning, good morning!’

She wished to throw them a wistful smile, but her eye caught on to a blur of a neat suit on the other side of the square instead. Another mobster? Really?! Keeping her green eyes transfixed on the man who was trying to chat up with one of the salesmen, she noted he was different from the others. Brown suit covered up to his calves in mud and with his handsome face contorting in agony, she saw him turn away from the salesman. She had never seen this man before. He looked foreign, his skin far less tan than most Italians and his eyes a shade of Mediterranean blue. He could very well be one of the American movie hunks she used to fawn over. Cary Grant, Humprey Bogart. His slicked back dark hair and chiseled cheeks by no means inferior to the legends of the silver screens.

But there was no silver screen here. And Bunny had no time for funny business. She had to figure out what to do. Go home and act like nothing happened? Try again later? Or get out on foot and hope that her father’s henchmen wouldn’t use their bloodhound like noses to track her down.

Feeling cold shivers run up her spine she wished to grasp for her bag, only to realise it was no longer hanging down her hip. There went the last of her plans. Washed down the drain, like the fish scales washed by the fishmonger behind the tall, handsome stranger. Who, strangely enough, had disappeared.

‘Good morning signora.’ A warm honeyed voice brushed past the shell of her ear and without looking, Bunny darted off. Did Number Four get backup? Or was it one of them? Fuck-fuck-fuck. With hasted feet she pushed past a group of women doing their daily shopping, disturbed eyes looking her up and down before they stepped aside for the mobster daughter’s pursuer.

‘GET OFF ME!’ Bunny exclaimed when she felt a hand on her arm, her hands raising up to throw in a punch if need be. But it wasn’t Number Four who stared back at her. It were heavy dark eyebrows, risen near comically onto the handsome stranger’s face.

‘I am..profusely sorry milady! I…’ Blue eyes blinked at her before he reached out a familiar item to her: her bag. Bunny exhaled. It was just her bag. Her bag! Her.. She snapped her eyes back at him. Who was this?

‘Thanks.’ She grabbed for the bag, only to see his hand wrap a little more tightly around the tan leather.

‘Wait a moment…’ He narrowed his eyes and terror was back in Bunny’s bones. Fuck. Was he with them?! She tugged a little more fiercely on the bag, but it didn’t budge. Oh please let go! Please let go! She pulled and pulled, but she was no match to the hidden muscles beneath the man’s well-cut suit. He smirked.

‘Are you..the Maniari sister?’ His accent finally clicked; foreign indeed. British, most likely. Was it the man her brother had mentioned to be visiting soon? Frowning, Bunny looked back at the man, only to realize another two suits had popped up in the corner of her vision. She had to make haste. Now.

‘Follow me and find out.’ She breathed, using her momentum to pull her bag free from his hand before running in the direction of a narrow alleyway between the houses. Fresh laundry was hanging from lines that crossed above her head, casting the street in a misty play of shadows, waving over her escaping form.

As half expected, the man continued to pursue her, muddied soles following her in close proximity.

‘Where are we going?’ His voice remained level despite the exertion and Bunny cast him a side glance. He jogged easily behind her, eyes looking up and around the narrow street. She wasn’t sure whether he was nervous about onlookers, or just admiring the change of scenery.

With a sharp turn they entered an even smaller alleyway. But just as she was about to make another right, she saw men rush past. And from the looks of it they were most definitely looking for her. Sharp suits, eager eyes. Within an instant she had pressed her back against the wall, making the stranger half bump into her.

‘In a bit of trouble?’ He smiled. ‘Do tell me it’s not a stolen bag, for…-’

‘Shut it.’ Nervously looking around herself, Bunny decided to keep heading straight, passing through another alleyway where a few women were hanging out carpets to give a pounding. Dust circled up in the air, offering a perfect getaway for their retreating feet.

Some streets later Bunny found herself back at the other side of the square. And if she wasn’t mistaken, her car wouldn’t be far from here. With nimble feet she moved through the crowds that were returning home after their shopping. Arms full of fresh fish, bread and vegetables; it was a challenge to not knock anything out of hands as she zipped past.

Staying hidden in the shade of the narrow passage, she eyed the street where her car was left in the middle of the road. No suits were seen, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Over her shoulder, the stranger watched along with her. Was he really not with them? Or was this just play pretend and would he be there to push her into their arms at the opportune time? Feeling her heart thump in her ears, Bunny pressed back into his chest, wishing to back away. And thankfully he did so too, sidestepping so they could remain hidden in the shadows of the buildings surrounding them.

‘Bunny, right?’ He whispered, looking at Bunny’s mildly flushed face. She was a beauty with her brown haired bangs and sparkling green eyes. And a feisty one too. With a scowl she looked back at him.

‘And you are?’

‘A tall dark handsome stranger?’ He tried, smiling. She rolled her eyes quietly and looked back at the square. As half expected one of her father’s henchmen had stepped out from one of the alleyways, shaking his head at someone who didn’t wear a suit. They were everywhere. Why had she even been so stupid to try and get out? Who did she think she was?

‘God have mercy.’ She whispered, shaking her head in defeat. This might just have very well been the last time she’d be allowed to even be outside. Here be Bunny, the mobster misses who became a prisoner in her own home. Woopti-fucking-doo.

‘May I suggest something?’ Jack eyed the little blue car that was left alone as the mobster henchmen ran into another street to continue their search.

‘Shoot.’

‘Charming woman you are.’ He teased.

‘Don’t push it.’ She looked back into his blue eyes, expectantly, waiting for him to dish up his idea.

‘I drive, you lay low and once at home you better have a really good excuse for your father.’

Bunny snarled. There went the last of her plans.

‘Papa!’ Bunny kissed her father’s cheek with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. Would he notice she was faking it?

‘Bunny, dear.’ Augusto leaned back a little to brush a loving thumb over his daughter’s face. He seemed quite oblivious to whatever had just transpired.

‘Sleep well?’ She asked, stepping back so her father could move to his desk where a recently lit cigar was waiting. Thick smoke curled up to the high ceiling of the dark, wood panelled office. And from the half-closed shutters and slow movements of Augusto it was clear he was having a particularly rough morning. Or hangover. Or perhaps both.

Waiting in the door opening, Jack shifted on his feet. He was painfully aware of the disheveled state of his shoes and pants. And all that running may have very well ruined his hair too. Keeping his hat in the crook of his arm he looked around the room. So this was it. The lion’s lair. The heart of the operation. Jack was just about to be addressed by the mobster lord who had settled back in his desk chair, when rushed footsteps echoed through the smooth marble hall. The mobster lord frowned and looked up and over Jack’s shoulder, where a heavy breathing bodyguard shot an exasperated look at Bunny.

‘YOU!’ The man wanted to step past Jack, but the Englishman was smooth in “accidentally” obstructing the doorway, eyebrows raising in feigned shock.

‘Apologies!’ Jack bowed slightly, making the bodyguard scowl even more. Apparently more people were having particularly rough mornings. Jack smiled inwardly and watched as Bunny stepped back to side with her father, her eyes betraying just how nervous she was despite her cool facade.

‘She was out, boss.’ The man pointed a reproachful finger at the brunette. ‘You little devil --’

Augusto inhaled sharply, face souring. ‘Out?’ He looked up and Bunny flinched. Augusto was an impressive looking man. Thin silver streaks framed his rugged looking face and his eyes flamed with passion, madness or both. Standing up with a pained groan he looked down at her, her feet wishing to shuffle back, but bumping into a small garbage bin instead.

That’s what she was to her father in this moment. Garbage. His face melted into complete and utter displeasure. ‘And what, daughter sweet, were you doing..out?! HMM? Wasn’t I clear?!’

‘Papa..I just..I wanted to --’

‘NONE OF THAT.’ Augusto inhaled from the cigar between his fingertips and let the smoke fume out through his nostrils. He looked like a raging bull, eyes wild as he looked back at the bodyguard, then Jack. Jack looked back at Augusto with level eyes, keeping them trained on the mobster lord with an unfazed expression.

‘And you?’

‘Your daughter was kindly enough to pick me up when I had car trouble.’ Jack stepped forward and bowed confidently. ‘Jack Wa--’

‘Are you a fool?!’

Jack raised back up and saw the mobster had turned back to his daughter, making Bunny shrivel smaller and smaller every passing second. She shook her head.

‘How..ugh..how are we ever to find you a husband? This insolence! You are just like your mother. You women you!’ He gripped Bunny’s face between digging fingertips and studied her for a second, snarling: ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ He let go, leaving small red marks on her skin as she rushed past Jack and outside of the room. Jack swallowed. He knew that Luigi’s family were mobsters. He had never cared much for it. All rich people seemed to have their flaws. Their peculiarities. And he was a friend of the family right? But perhaps that had just now been completely and utterly ruined.

‘And you must be Walker.’

Jack quickly returned his attention to Augusto. ‘I am.’ Jack nodded solemnly, keeping a straight face as the bodyguard turned on his heel and looked Jack up and down. His eyes lingered especially long on his sodden trousers, red mud dried like bloody splatters on the brown wool fabric around his calves.

Oh, how he wished he could have changed into a different suit before meeting Augusto. First impressions mattered, you see.

‘Do not be nervous.’ Lucia smiled, squeezing her fingers around his bicep. ‘It’s just men. Stupid, silly, rambunctious men. They wouldn’t know a good thing even if it hit them straight in the face.’ Her silvery eyes glanced over at the bellboy who kept a straight face, staring in the direction of the elevator doors as they zipped up to the 11th floor of the Parisian Grand.

‘I’m not nervous.’ Jack looked down at her. All silvery haired class wrapped in a black satin gown. She was breathtaking. ‘Not for them at least. I’m nervous for..you.’

‘Me?’ She chuckled softly. ‘Oh sweet darling. You do not realize what a gem you are. The men in my life never cared for their women the way you do.’ She sighed and looked down at the ring on her finger. Wrapped around the smooth black tuxedo jacket, it sparkled like a star in nightly skies. She missed the one who gave that ring to her. But he was gone. And were it not for Jack, she’d feel rather alone - and terribly bored.

‘And your husband?’

‘Well. What can I say. He was a man. I loved him. I fought him. I hated him. And then he died.’

Jack swallowed as the elevator’s bell dinged, signalling they had arrived at Lucia’s suite. The place where he’d meet her family - and perhaps in a way become part of her family too.

‘Remember to be better than them my boy.’

‘It’s Jack, madame.’

‘I know, I know.’ She laughed and the doors slid open. Her fingers tapped comfortingly on his arm before they strode out into her palace of gold and glitter. ‘But you’re still my boy...Jack.’

Chap 2 >

General tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @hell1129-blog @agniavateira @tillthelandslide @elinesama @maddyreads14

#henry cavill as jack #henry cavill fanfiction #the englishman jack #tuscany #1956 #mobster fic #paris

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indiavolowetrust · 4 years

Text

THE OBEY ME BOYS AS RPG BOSSES: NEO-OSAKA

LEVEL 1-7

LEVEL 8-10

FINAL BOSS

ENDINGS (YOU ARE HERE)

You are one of many modified humans in Neo-Osaka. A relic of your brief time in the criminal underbelly. Your adopted little brother, Luke, has been kidnapped by a criminal syndicate known only as The Devil Triad for unknown reasons. Simeon, his upperclassman, is the sole witness of his kidnapping. Armed with your trusty katana, the healing microbots in your blood, and the information Simeon has given you, you venture back into the underworld of Neo-Osaka to save your brother.

Word Count: 2,621

TW: Blood, Violence, Mention of Drug Use

BAD ENDING

Deal the killing blow to one or more bosses

Reduce Luke’s health to less than 50% while fending him off

Lose the final battle with Simeon

You’ve done plenty of bad things in your life. Plenty of stupid things, too. You’ve dealt Rose behind pharmacies, you’ve taken out more than a few inconveniences as a former triad underling, and you’ve stolen what little belongings the residents of Neo-Osaka have. You’ve intimidated business owners into submission, you’ve aided in various kidnappings, and you’ve killed possibly innocent targets without even questioning your actions. Slaughtering the prominent members of the Devil Triad is only another tick on your long list of misdeeds. Unknowingly killing off the only family of the Devil Triad’s leader – well, you can’t say you expected anything good to come out of this.

Yet the guilt gnaws at you from the inside.

You were sent by loan sharks to kill off two adults, you remember. A no-good father that took debts out in his wife’s name and a wife that simply gambled the money away. You remember it as if it were yesterday: there was a severe thunderstorm that day, forcing your boots to sink in mud, and it had been enough to irritate you. The two targets fell easily beneath your blade. The television played some advertisement for the up-and-coming company, AkumaGen. The lights flickered with the storm. They were just about to sit down for dinner, you gathered, judging by the scene. A simple meal of rice, pickled plums, and steamed fish was on the table.

And then you had realized that the table was set for three. A possible witness was in the house.

You aren’t sure what you had expected that day. A quick search had yielded almost nothing in the way of anyone else, despite your thorough methods. No cowards in the closets. No good-for-nothing underneath the bed. A sound had captured your attention, fumbling and muffled, and you had turned to face it with your katana held before you. Whoever it was would meet a nasty surprise, you had decided. You would behead them before they had the chance to scream.

Then a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy of maybe two or three years of age had toddled into the hallway, clutching a blanket, and something had changed in you.

The memory is enough to cloud your mind with nostalgia. Almost, anyway. You’re not sure if you can completely remove yourself from the current situation, considering the agony of being dismembered.

There is only the sound of Simeon’s laughter, cruel and mocking. It reverberates in your skull as he tears you limb from limb. As he takes his time with each act. It would appear that he knows more about the microbots in your body than you had expected: while you can heal from most mortal wounds, you can’t exactly grow back an lost finger or two. Arms and legs are certainly out of the question. And so Simeon simply tears off a piece of a limb, allows the microbots to repair it, then repeats the process. Your screams echo in the massive chamber.

You do not know when it is that shock overtakes your body – time has long lost its meaning – but you are glad that it does. You watch the insensate Luke out of the corner of your eye as Simeon continues his torture. Your eyes begin to glaze over.

Luke is breathing, at least. Simeon had never intended to kill him, considering his usefulness in his research. You can only hope that Luke’s mind will fall apart as quickly as possible. If his mind were to remain intact – no, you can’t think about that now. Rather, it’s useless to think of something so depressing. You are at death’s door now, despite the modifications to your body. It’s only matter of time.

You find yourself reaching towards him with your remaining arm. Simeon quickly snaps it.

Raising and protecting Luke as your own little brother is the only good thing you’ve ever done. You can’t even do that right.

GOOD ENDING

Spare all bosses (do not deal the killing blow)

Do not reduce Luke’s health to less than 50%

Win the final battle with Simeon

You’ve asked yourself time and time again if you’re doing the right thing. If what you’re doing is enough to pay for your misdeeds. While the question is completely and utterly stupid – you’ve committed too many murders – you find that the question is an everlasting presence in the back of your mind. A quiet, nagging feeling that tips you in the right direction. And then it is joined by more questions: Is this enough to pay for your sins? Would you forgive yourself if you did this? Would this make Luke happy?

While Diavolo had thought that you had killed off his family – which you had intended to, at first – you can’t say with certainty that they are truly dead. The questions had stopped you from butchering the Sleeping Bull. You had merely rendered him unconscious. They had stopped you from simply tearing open Beelzebub’s stomach and taking the pills for yourself. You had only dealt blunt, heavy strikes to his stomach until he was forced to spit it out. You had left an insensate but alive Asmodeus in the heart of the Pink Scorpion, trusting his employees to take care of him, and you had simply dismembered the non-living parts of that irate librarian’s body. A bit of your modded blood had allowed the dockmaster’s body to patch itself together again, albeit slowly. You had manipulated the force of the plasma gun’s recoil back onto Mammon, using his own brash, unthinking nature against him, and you had left a massive but ultimately non-fatal injury against Lucifer’s abdomen. You had allowed the scientist to pin himself to the floor using his own abilities, the glass shards skewering him by the shoulder and ankle, and you had merely disabled the chip in the head of security’s cybernetic body. You hadn’t attacked Diavolo with murderous intent.

Most of all, you had never meant to hurt Luke. You hadn’t even bothered to raise your sword at him. You had only spoken soft, soothing words towards him, begging him to snap out of his addled state. Even as he had thrown your body against the concrete, cracking your ribs, you hadn’t raised a finger to defend yourself. Even as he left gashes in your flesh, warbling incoherently, you hadn’t allowed yourself to unsheathe your weapon. Luke had left puncture wounds on your body, broken more than a few of your bones, and nearly sliced through one or two of your fingers – and still you hadn’t bothered to defend yourself. Luke was already half-dead and exhausted.

When he finally came to, his mind returning to its former state, you nearly matched him in his condition.

But you won’t die. Not here, and certainly not now. If you’re going to die, then you’ll take down the monstrous bastard in front of you first.

The abomination that Simeon has become holds the stumps of his limbs in pain, howling in agony. Luke uses all six of his wing-like appendages to carve through the flesh of the abomination once more, tossing him to the ground, and you take the opportunity to dash up one mutilated arm. Despite your injuries – more than a few of your fingers are broken, you’ve lost almost too much blood, and you’re sure you’re missing part of an arm – you force yourself forward. You raise your weapon for one final strike, aiming for his neck.

You feel yourself make contact with your target. Darkness overwhelms your vision.

* * *

The world is a pure, rich white when you awaken. Confusion clouds your thoughts. While you hadn’t really believed in an afterlife in the first place, you’re more confused as to why you’ve ended up here. Here being some sort of heaven, that is. You find yourself merely gazing into the pure nothingness for a few moments, allowing yourself to take in the strange sight.

You realize stupidly that there are only bandages in front of your eyes.

Multiple appendages around you before you can tear them off, nearly crushing your bruised organs and cracked ribs, and you let out a gasp of pain. Something warm and wet soaks through your thin clothing and blanket. It drips profusely against your cheek from above as the unknown figure simply takes you into their arms and sobs.

“You’re awake!” Luke cries, hugging you tighter. You let out another squawk of discomfort. “I – I thought you – they told me that there was a chance that you wouldn’t wake up. I never meant – I didn’t mean for any of this to –“

Luke, you force out. Could he get off you for a second? You aren’t trying to die twice.

“Oh! Ah, um, yes.”

Luke pulls away the bandages over your eyes as he does so, taking care not to treat your body so roughly again. Pats down the bit of hair that’s inevitably gotten ruffled by the action. You blink away the harsh lighting of the hospital – at least, you think it’s a hospital – and take the opportunity to take in your surroundings.

Countless tubes are connected to your body. Holo-screens of all kinds surround your plain bed, monitoring your vitals, and there are more than a few chairs scattered about the room. More than one person has sat around to watch your recovery, it seems. A rather expensive-looking skylight allows sunlight to filter into the room, the light itself reflecting off the many pearl-white furnishings within. It’s bright enough to make your head hurt. You raise a hand to rub your temples, only to realize that –

“They said they couldn’t save your arm,” Luke explains with an apologetic tone. His gaze flickers to the stump of your shoulder and away in shame. “That – that was my fault. Your other one is fine, though.”

So it would seem. You flex the fingers of your remaining hand, feeling them move under the white bed sheet, then use it to rub your temples. While there are many, many questions running through your mind, the sudden pang of hunger in your belly preoccupies your thoughts. You feel as if you haven’t eaten in days. If this is a hospital, then shouldn’t they have a cafeteria of some kind?

Luke nods. “Kinda. I’ll go get it for you, if you want. Ah, wait!“

You wave off Luke’s concern as you use your remaining hand to grip the side of the bed, intending to get up. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, despite your injuries. Only potential blood loss would be a problem. Now, if you can just figure out where your clothes and katana are, then you can two can head back home. You’re not exactly patient enough to be discharged, considering your nearly supernatural ability to heal.

“Oi!” a familiar voice calls out, stopping you momentarily. You blink. “Ya aren’t allowed to leave until ya get all healed up. Boss’ orders.”

You turn to see the greedy treasurer standing in the doorway, one arm casually propped against the frame. He eyes you irritably through orange sunglasses. Despite being unarmed, habit forces your remaining hand to your side. You grit your teeth.

“Y-you!”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Can’t fight here, darlin’,” he says. “I’d prefer not to, anyway. The damage ya caused was hell to pay, and I ain’t exactly the cheapest person around. They’re still fixin’ the walls right now.”

Yeah? Well, you’ll make sure they have to fix another one after you put his head through –

It takes a few minutes for Luke to stop an all-out war between the both of you. Luke managed to revive the boss of the Devil Triad with his own blood, he explains, which was a risky gamble. Yet it was one that had paid off: Simeon hadn’t exactly been lying when he said that Luke’s blood was a panacea of some sort, despite his own adverse reaction to it, and Diavolo’s body was damaged enough to accept the impromptu blood transfusion with limited problems. Bringing him back from the dead had been enough to incur a debt on his part, as had the miscommunication regarding his underlings. Lucifer and Mammon’s presence had been proof of that.

Despite the positive details of his explanation, there are more that worry you. Simeon’s body had vanished from the scene, as had a number of vials containing the results of his experiment. Diavolo and the Devil Triad aren’t sure if Simeon was working alone, given the ease of his infiltration, or if he was working for another group. Luke’s body will never be quite the same either: despite his roomy jacket and partial mask, you can still see the vestiges of his monstrous form. His wings, while tucked in, will be difficult to conceal amongst the common populace. Your left arm will never grow back, and the presence of your healing microbots would likely present a challenge if you did want a cybernetic limb outfitted.

“I still haven’t forgiven ya for ruining that suit, ya know,” Mammon growls as he escorts you and Luke down the hall. His expensive shoes clack against the marble floors of his mansion. “I don’t expect that yer gonna take it upon yerself to pay for it, either.”

He shot you in the arm, shoulder, and through one of your feet, you point out. There’s no chance in hell that you’re gonna pay to get his suit fixed.

Luke prevents another fight from breaking out between the both of you. As it would turn out, his wings are very, very sufficient in the task of keeping you both separated.

* * *

You stare at Diavolo’s outstretched hand half an hour later, despite the amiable smile that he gives you. Unlike before, you sense that this one is genuine. One that truly expresses gratitude. You’ve done him a great service for preventing such a dangerous drug from being spread amongst his territory, he explains, so it would only be natural that he would give you the freedom of choice. He had nearly beheaded you, after all.

But if you would be so generous as to aid him in tracking down the true perpetrator’s behind Simeon’s actions, he would be eternally grateful.

The questions make themselves known in your thoughts once more, analyzing the choice presented before you. Are you doing the right thing? Is this enough to pay for your sins? Would you forgive yourself if you did this? Would this make Luke happy?

The answer is a full and resounding yes.

His skin is cold when you shake his hand. A side-effect of Luke’s strange, panacea-like blood, you would guess. Mammon huffs somewhere behind you, lingering in the doorway, but he fails to say anything on the matter. Luke’s smiling, half-morphed face only encourages your decision.

Raising and protecting Luke as your own little brother is the only good thing you’ve ever done. You intend to change that.

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arch-archivars · 3 years

Text

aesthetics for the entities, part i + ii. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i. the buried. weighed blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust and sand speaking to you.

ii. the corruption. insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.

iii. the dark. shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.

iv. the desolation. senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. a kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.

v. the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance and appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi. the end. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambiling with death. as old as the universe. soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the plead of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii. the eye. googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colours. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t watch away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyerism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.

viii. the hunt. sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks and growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstorous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix. the lonely. an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x. the slaughter. a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.

xi. the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallusinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

xii. the stranger. wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs and pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter and sequin. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii. the vast. open spaces. carnival rides going up and down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.

xiv. the web. undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak-willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unrealiability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny lengs and fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.

+ the extinction. the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivours. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.

TAGGED BY: @radioways mwah !!

TAGGING: @stfreds / @meinliied ( martin or rikar ? ) / @lorefound ( barnabas ) / @mistiqued ( maxwell ) / @vulpesse / @killedfirst / @ghrisha

#〉〉swallowing mud / swallowing glass / the scent of blood —— » inspiration . cecil #/#not me annoying my non - tma mutuals #with tma memes #indulge me <3

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hungover-and-broke-student · 3 years

Text

esthetics for the entities, part i. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

v. the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiitng for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance and appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

xi. the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

TAGGED BY: @brokentoys

TAGGING: steal it! @monomaniiametus @tricksterreformed-a @acriminallawyer

#ooc #tag meme #this was fun thanks for tagging me <3 #long post

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babythingcoffee-blog · 3 years

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Birds of a Feather: Prologue | Like a Lead Balloon

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Right from the center of the Eden garden moved a snake. His shiny black scales reflecting the sunlight onto every leaf and petal he came across while passing through. The snake had just changed a course of events that would put in motion the whole of human history, but his own most significant encounter had yet to happen.

Not only had his lot asked him to "go up there and make some trouble", but he also had a much more prominent task to fulfill. Being the snake of Eden didn't mean THAT much back then, but it sure would in the near and distant future, the eternal Demon Crawly, cast out of Heaven and set on Earth by Hell to both bring down souls but most importantly, to destroy any form of angel to roam near him. Now, he didn't know what had happened to Heaven, how many of its soldiers would come down and how strong they were but Hell had been clear on that. Destroy the forces of the opposition, at any cost.

The wiley serpent came across a hole in the wall as he slithered, someone had made it up recently. Adam perhaps, in a desperate attempt at escaping Her fury. As soon as he turned away from it he had to hide between bushes as quickly as his slithering body allowed him. Behind a few trees, an angel with white curly hair and a white gown was seemingly pacing around nervously for some reason.

Bare feet idly tread across the barren dirt a mere few feet ahead of the prying eyes. A disgruntled yet anxious angel seeming distant and unaffected by the world around him. Ignoring the distant cry of birds, or the growing hammer of thunder rolling in from off the horizon.

How could such a thing have happened? Under HIS guard? A Principality - guardian of the Eastern Gate. His only instructions to keep such dastardly fiends out of the garden. Even having received a flaming sword from the almighty Herself - one that still hummed and glowed within his hands. Illuminating the dew upon the leaves surrounding him.

Now Eve was already due and the garden was no longer safe for her nor Adam. For both of their sake, they would have to leave and venture out into the unknown. With beasts and creatures at every waking corner.

A rustling from the nearby bushes finally seemed to snap the angel out of his internal quarrel, causing him to snap his head up and peer up over the growing foliage. Of course, all there was to expect was none other than Adam and Eve themselves and the angel couldn't help but feel their stomach churn with guilt and dismay at the sight. The couple shrouded towards the quite obvious break in the wall, just barely large enough to fit through. The angel soon stepped forward, their grip on the sword growing tighter and tighter the closer they got to the couple who peered upwards. Clearly afraid they were either going to be stopped or reprimanded by the guardian.

"Here you are-" The angel suddenly blurted out, immediately outstretching his arm towards the couple.

Adam - the first of mankind appeared hesitant at first and even shied away from the threatening weapon. However, upon realizing the ethereal being’s intent, carefully took it into their own hands.

"Flaming sword. Should keep you safe - no need to thank me." The angel blurted out all at once, nerves rising.

Oh Lord, what was he thinking? Giving away such a thing? A weapon made for him and him specifically to keep up with his task - a task he had clearly failed miserably. Now what? He was just going to give it away? While a demon still lurked in the garden?

"And please... don't let the sun go down on you here."

Once more the couple hesitated, Eve, spared a glance towards her partner who seemed evermore perplexed by the sword. By the time his gaze lifted, the angel did no more than gesture back towards the hole. Urging them onward and outward, fearing what may happen if they stayed but a moment longer.

The serpent stared incredulously at the scene. Did an almighty angel just give out a flaming sword to humans just… because?! Angels weren't like that the last time he had checked and even so... He shook his head. Admiration? For an angel? Ridiculous. But now, looking at it from the right perspective… An angel had just given away his most powerful weapon. Yes, this was the perfect chance. He watched as Adam and Eve quickly left the garden and slithered silently behind a tree trunk. He took one last look at the angel before turning into the new corporation Hell had given him. He was very aware that the Principality, which he didn't yet know was his title, could have heard him but it was not the time to back down. 'C'mon you can do this, you can do this' he thought to himself, he hadn't spoken anything to anyone aside from his slytherin whispers but he did know how to, and he sure did know the angel could too. Was he even gonna share words with him before entering a fight? His inner thoughts and his breath were overwhelming him so much he wouldn't have noticed Aziraphale getting closer anyway.

The Principality could only watch as the couple slowly but surely made their way through the desert- finally leaving the safety of the garden and into a whole new and otherwise unexplored world. It was quite dreadful that such an act had to occur, he merely hoped that he had done the right thing and that both parents and their unborn child would be safe.

The angel couldn't help but allow his eyes to close, if but for a moment as a rush of wind swept past them. Feeling the phantom heart in their chest rap hurriedly against his chest. Knowing he would be reprimanded for sure.

However, his thoughts were put on hold by a sound coming from the bushes once more. Seemingly from behind him. As much as he would love more for it to merely be an animal or critter coming to wish the couple farewell, recent circumstances seemed to indicate otherwise.

Hesitantly, the Principality turned back towards the forest. Eyeing the foliage for anything odd or out of place, steadying his stance in case that fiend decided to follow the couple. That was certainly something he could not allow.

Yet without his flaming sword... Well, he wasn't useless per se but... My, my it certainly would have helped. Instead, the Principality opted for a fallen tree branch laying idly near the wall. Most certainly wasn't as good as a sword, but the pointed end would at least make quick work discorperating what may be lurking in the bushes.

Light on his feet, the angel travelled onward. Carefully and steadily inching further and further from the wall until he came upon a rather peculiar sight, to say the least.

Facing away from him seemed to be a figure, shrouded in the darkest robes he had ever seen yet with hair as bright and unyielding as the bundle of roses the angel had come across just the other day. Their hair was extraordinarily long and appeared to curl perfectly between a pair of inky black wings. As dark and frightful as the night sky. A demon no-less.

Immediately the angel’s heart leapt into his throat, a sudden rush of hopelessness and worry clouding his vision if but for a moment. Fearful of what this creature might hold. Fearful of encountering it, but he was a Principality. A soldier. He was the only defence between the garden and imposing demons. He could not be afraid. Not even for a moment.

Instead of fleeing, the angel found courage and approached once more until he was just on the opposite side of the tree trunk. His opponent mere feet away from him. In but an instant, the Principality reached forward and grabbed a lock of the creature's hair- forcing their head to rest back onto the top of the tree trunk. Only a moment later did the broken branch find its place just beneath the fiend's Adam's apple. The spikes on the makeshift weapon ready to piece their flesh within a moment's notice.

The demon was taken by surprise at the sudden grip on his hair and spikes pointed at his throat, he gasped, his heart starting to race. 'No-no-no. How did I get myself defeated already?!'

But oh. This was quite different indeed. Among the angels, no one appeared to have hair as long as the serpents. Most opting for shorter hair after the war but... What was most surprising was just how normal they appeared. Having a similar human corporation. And here the Principality was, having expected something matted and beastly and altogether too far gone to be considered heavenly. And yet? He could have easily mistaken him for an angel - if not for the darkened wings and pungent scent of sulphur waving off of them.

"It's certainly no flaming sword but it shall hurt no less once I discorporate you. State your purpose, demon."

Of course, being no flaming sword nor holy water it wouldn't have killed him for the strict sense of the word, but still, being discorporated was highly inconvenient and laughed upon by other demons. Especially considering it to be so soon.

But with big surprise, the angel didn't discorporate him right away and he even asked him a question..? Maybe it wasn't too late, he could have played it in his favour, he only had to hope he was malleable.

He gulped once more, his Adam's apple struggling under the branch.

"There's no need for such violence, is there..?" He managed to speak out his warmest and most fluent voice, despite his raspy overtone. Charming to say the least.

"I would gladly present myself if you came in sight, much harder to do when I'm only facing trees." His smug tone came out like an invite, a slight smirk running across his face.

Saying that the demon had caught the angel off guard would be a complete understatement. Of course, the angel had been prepared for a fight. For cruel and harsh words to be shared between them before the demon would show their true colours. Perhaps form claws or fangs or... have their hair suddenly turn into a bouquet of snakes? Whatever demons did, or however they looked outside of their corporation. Anything but this really.

"I beg your pardon?" Was all the Principality could think to ask, eyes flickering over the others' form.

A look of bewilderment crossed over the angel’s face in coordination with the demon’s inviting smirk. Eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing in reply.

Being so up close, the angel had to admit he was once again a little underwhelmed by the demon. Once more having expected some horrid and ugly creature, ready to rip his throat out at any given moment. But now? With the red-haired demon beneath him and with practically a splinter pressed against his neck, the angel seemed to be the only one of the two who was barbaric. Especially considering the demon had a much smaller frame to him.

The demon once again gulped, still feeling the pressure. Maybe this wasn't working, he had to think of something fast.

"Well, you… you've asked a question but I can't really think of how to reply when you're pointing a scary spooky branch at my throat and yanking on my hair. Would you mind getting in my field of vision?"

Despite, of course, wanting a clearer sight of the opponent to possibly strike at him, he couldn't deny to himself he was terribly curious to look at him. He had only seen him for a brief moment before having to hide back and curiously he didn't seem to be the kind of angel he had expected to guard the gate of Eden, not someone like Gabriel for a start. A lot less imperative you could say, but he still needed a closer look to be sure of that.

Oh now, this had to be a trick, certainly. Just as the angel had gotten the demon in such a vulnerable state, they were looking for a way to weasel their way out of it.

Though, the angel had to admit... The demon truly wasn't doing much to warrant such an aggressive introduction. Merely minding his own business it had seemed. Nonetheless, the Principality saw no harm in playing coy - if but for a moment.

A gentle sigh left the angel's lips as they slowly lifted the makeshift weapon off from the demon’s neck, seeing a thin red mark where the branch once lay. Following suit, they slowly and gently released the bundle of red hair from within their grasp, allowing the demon to move as they pleased.

Crawly finally let out a breath of relief, closing his eyes. He quickly regained himself and rubbed his neck, fixing his hair from the yank as well but not turning around. Just yet.

The angel watched intently at first, cocking his head and unfurrowing his brows as he watched the demon carefully tidy himself up. Fix up his hair and the suchlike from the angel’s assault, and quite like a fool - he let them.

As soon as Crawly moved his hand from his hair he quickly reached back to grab the angel by the collar of his gown and pulled him against the wall, eyes glowing and pointy fangs showing in a snarl.

Oh now, this - this is much more what Aziraphale was expecting. Serpentine eyes and fangs and the suchlike... But still. Wasn't quite as horrifying or demonic as the other angels had made out, but much more closer to the Principality’s expectations.

If he wasn't so caught up in adrenaline he would have felt his whole body shake furiously. The serpent of Eden had NEVER been so close to an angel since he had become a demon, and absolutely never touched one. He made sure the strong pull he gave him was enough to make him lose grip on the branch and now he was in control not only of him but of his life. Angels had many weapons against demons but without them, most of them weren't much of a fight, while demons… they only had one, and they only needed one. They controlled Hellfire and there was nothing an angel could do against it. But this demon, he had never killed an angel, he had never killed anything. And, he would have never admitted it, but at that moment he had no desire to do so. His gaze easily started to flutter around Azirpahale's facial features. He looked so damn soft to be a guardian, what was Heaven thinking?! 'Who is this guy supposed to scare now?' He thought, still pressing him fiercely against the wall.

While the angel was most certainly caught off guard, their facial expressions didn't overtly seem to hint as to whether the angel was enraged or frightened. Which - if the angel was being truthful - he didn't really feel either. He was just doing his job, that's all, and the demon his. And well, as the archangels said he was merely expendable. Many more soldiers where he came from and all that and now that Adam and Eve were gone he wasn't rightfully sure what purpose he had. Hardly a reason to be afraid or angered. At least he wouldn't have to do the paperwork.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate could only open and close their shallow fist, having realized their only real means of defence had been dropped. Instead of wriggling or trying to shake the demon off, he merely complied and allowed himself to be pinned against the wall. The back of his head stinging a bit from the impact.

The angel's baby blue gaze slowly flickered over the redhead’s form once more, taking in much more detail now that they were face to face - and so close at that. Though it didn't take much before the angel met those golden eyes, his brows furrowed in confusion once more.

"Are you quite sure you're a demon?" He suddenly asked.

"No offence - really. Awfully clever and frightful you are but... Erm..."

Crawly's eyes widened from confusion, the snarl slowly being replaced by a slightly open frown that had no words to spread. His hands trembled in the hold, his willingness to kill him fading more and more away as he kept looking at him, his lips now trembling a little as well. His white hair looked so pure, as was expected, but it gave him a calming feeling that he would have never imagined to feel in front of an angel. His eyes followed as well, getting him lost in his thoughts with that angelic yet completely oblivious expression. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Uh… I..." He only managed to blurt out a few sounds, not really much of a conversationalist, so he tried a bit harder.

"I'm… pretty sure I am. What… what do you mean?"

Why did he even want to know what some Principality thought about him?! Why did he even indulge so much instead of burning him down? It was probably a trick anyway. It had to be and yet…

"Mmnn. Well..." The angel trailed off, unable to deny the small heartache he felt in response to the demon’s reaction.

Surely it must have been a hurtful thing to ask, having been an angel once before. Though truthfully he hadn't expected this reaction either. Expecting such a creature to only be filled with anger and hellfire. Certainly not as... Well, human as this.

"As far as I've been told, demons are supposed to be quite hideous in fact. 'Unholy combination of man and beast' if I could recall being told... but..." The angel trailed off yet again.

The Principality could feel his wings flap helplessly against the wall, certainly not used to being pinned in such an uncomfortable position. Truly though, he had to admit he worried he had gotten the whole thing wrong. No trick, no lies. Just - overtly confused.

"...well. I'm sure you've seen your corporation. You don't exactly fit the description for hideous... Are all demons supposed to be as pretty as you? I'm quite worried I've been misinformed."

Crawly looked even more surprised, more shocked in fact. His cheeks felt as if they were burning at the angel's words, his heart racing, unable to process the situation. He knew that if he spoke another word he would have probably started stuttering. His nervousness shifted his embarrassment into a violent chuckle. He looked down and slowly let go of the robe as he kept chuckling.

"Oh, now I get it. You're completely out of your mind. That's why you gave the sword away and all that, you don't reason correctly. Heaven must have sent you down here because you weren't useful up there." The demon immediately regretted saying it all. That was awfully mean, unnecessary and evil but he did try to burn him down a few seconds before… so this was better, maybe.

That wasn't what he wanted to say, it really wasn't, but he had no other way to process the way Aziraphale was acting. He had just complimented him for Hell's sake, what was he supposed to answer or even think of that.

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale blurted out, quite taken aback by the demon's laughter and words. Having not expected such an adverse reaction at all.

At this, the angel couldn't help but scowl. Eyes narrowing as he pursed his lips once more. Very much not appreciating the reply, and especially not understanding what exactly was so funny.

"Lord, you sound quite like Gabriel." The Principality all but groaned under their breath.

"Now, see - see here you fiend. There are beasts and animals out there, it will be cold and dark soon - and she's expecting already! No thanks to you I presume. As though I were going to let them walk out of here without a means to defend themselves." The angel huffed, quite matter of factly.

"Put it to me to think a demon would have the common decency." They signed, hoping the couple had managed to put some distance between them and the garden. At least be able to hide from the fiend pinning them to the wall.

"And for your information - I'm of Principality. A soldier if you would, and I'm hardly the last either. Whether I'm discorperated or killed, you'll have to deal with another soon enough."

Crawly moved away from him a little, letting him go.

"Well then I can't let you be substituted by someone more competent can I?" He gave him a slight smirk and looked up at the wall, trusting he wouldn't turn upon him with the branch so quickly.

"I don't know about you but I'm definitely going to take a look at the two lovebirds out there." He started and without waiting for a reply, he flew up over the wall and landed gently on his feet, moving a portion of his hair behind his ear.

"Hm? Now hold on a minute-" the angel blurted out, clearly either not heard or ignored as the demon suddenly took to the skies.

He needed a moment to process the encounter, even if the Principality was following him up there again in a moment. He sighed out silently and moved his gaze to the outside desert as the couple encountered their first enemy.

"Oh- oh my."

At first, the Principality thought the darkened wings sickly. His stomach churning at the thought of pure white wings suddenly singeing and going dark... But - they hadn't appeared as awful up close. Once more seemingly painted like the night. Especially as the demon took to the skies, it was hard to deny how iridescent and breathtaking their wings were. Only thinking to relate them to that of a raven - but even then a Raven’s wings barely compared.

The Principality took a deep breath, holding their tongue as they watched the demon suddenly land on the top of the wall. Worrying he would catch sight of the couple and end up flying after them.

Thus, he outstretched his wings and took off as well. Following close behind the redhead and managing to make it to the top of the wall with a single flap of his wings. Only tucking them back in and close to his corporation to ensure he did not miss landing on the wall.

He landed alongside the demon, eyes fixated on him. Ensuring that he would not disappear from his sight. As soon as he landed and stepped forward, he opened his mouth, adamant on giving this demon a piece of his mind before a not-so-distant roar caught him by surprise.

Quickly, the angel turned his gaze around to find what the demon had been watching so adamantly. Adam - fighting a lion. Protecting his expecting partner. Immediately, the angel was transfixed. Worry lines sprouted across his face as he watched with the utmost intent, knowing he could do nothing but watch. Hopefully, the humans reigned victorious.

The angel's hands trembled slightly as he began fidgeting with his fingers in front of him. Gaze softening, no longer overly worried about the redhead at his side. The demon turned his sight to the angel and watched as he reacted to the scene.

"You're… worried. Is it about the fact that you gave away a holy weapon?" His tone seemed smug, but this time the smile on his face seemed of understanding more than making fun of him. He looked back at the battle waiting for an answer he very well knew wasn't sure to come. Of course, Aziraphale wasn't obligated to answer him and after a quick pause to see what the two out there would do, they would have probably gone back to fight each other.

A few spare moments passed by in silence as the two watched the battle unfold in front of them. The angel only seeming to snap from his thoughts once Adam made a devastating blow towards the lion, lashing forward with the flaming sword

They peeled their gaze away from the fight for only a moment, sparking a glance towards the demon in recognition before looking back over the wall.

"No... well, yes. I suppose." The angel started. Carefully picking at the skin around his nails.

"Of course I'm afraid I've done the wrong thing... but... what if it's not enough? For them I mean. It's an awfully dangerous world out there and who knows if they'll be able to defend themselves against everything this world has to offer? And for how long..?"

"Why do you care so much about them?" Crawly asked, turning his head again.

"Of course… task and all but… you know." He actually had no idea how to continue that sentence so he started another one.

"Anyway I don't… think you can actually do the wrong thing." He gazed back at the humans, walking off in the distance with the holy flaming sword in the man's hands. Such a blasphemous scene, it looked hilarious to the demon.

"Oh... I... well, thank you." The angel hesitantly muttered, feeling the tips of their ears and their cheeks flush a deep red.

The last thing Aziraphale had expected from a demon, let alone one that had him pinned up against the wall just a few moments ago, was a compliment. Nonetheless, the angel somehow found solace in his words. Finding himself relaxing if only a bit.

Although, it wasn't long before the humans had disappeared over the horizon. Disappearing from view just as thunder crackled ominously overhead. Causing the angel to jump slightly at the suddenness of it all, especially with the way the earth seemed to tremble beneath their feet.

"Admittedly, I suppose I care for all Her creations." He offered, shrugging at the enemy's question.

"But... even so. I've spent so long by their side. I... just can't stand the thought of them getting hurt. Let alone suffer from Her wrath. Though, I don't suppose you would understand, having tempted them in the first place... It's not quite something I feel I can explain."

Crawly stayed silent. That somehow made him feel bad, not a demon’s bad, just the emotion of feeling not right.

"They just told me to come up here and make some trouble." He said without looking at him and added in almost a whisper of tone.

"I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway." The demon scoffed.

"Why am I even justifying myself with you." He looked back at him.

"So, emotional angel, are we going to get back to our previous exchange?"

"Hm... I suppose we should now, shouldn't we?" The angel muttered, shuffling uncomfortably above the wall.

Truthfully, they weren't altogether particularly fond of the idea of battling with the demon at the moment. Considerably more interested in where the humans were going and what would become of them.

"And true. You no need to justify yourself to me. Nor I to you. We're hereditary enemies. Just... following orders is all."

Before the Principality could move an inch, however, they suddenly felt something cold and wet sprinkle onto their face. They winced slightly before glancing up at the darkened clouds, watching as more of the fragile raindrops began falling from the heavens. Growing in number and speed.

While water wasn't exactly a new invention - Aziraphale had gone to the presentation - they couldn't help but shoot a worried glance towards the serpent of Eden. It was, after all, the first-ever rainfall. Droplets of water just suddenly falling from the sky without much prompt. To an angel, after such an event they could only rightfully assume it to be holy water. That God Herself was crying with anger and sadness at what had befallen her creation.

And certainly, this wouldn't do. There was hardly enough to kill a demon as it were, but it would certainly be enough to hurt the redhead - especially on his place upon the wall alongside him. So instead, the angel did what he thought best.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate carefully unfurled their wings and draped one over top of the demon. Sheltering them from what they assumed to be holy water falling from above.

"Perhaps... once the storm has passed. If it ever does. Not quite a battle to share amongst our peers if we're both sopping wet. It would be quite embarrassing I should say. We are not animals, after all. It just wouldn't be proper. For either of us." The angel protested, avoiding the demon's gaze as they peered back over the horizon.

Crawly had been hit by a few drops already, fortunately, it wasn't holy water, so it would be an understatement to say he was shocked to see the angel's wing shielding him from the rain. He took a moment to process the action as his cheeks warmed up a little bit. He listened to his words silently then, still without saying a word. He looked back at the horizon, moving closer to the angel to be fully shielded. The fact that it didn't hurt him didn't mean he wished to be soaking wet.

Similarly, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel his cheeks heat up once again as the demon shifted. Feeling their lingering presence inch closer and closer. Their arms brushing against each other every once in a while.

What an odd set of circumstances the pair had found themselves in... Watching the first rainfall on this brand new world. An angel and demon taking place on the wall of Eden, with the angel shielding the demon from the rain. Even the fact that one had not killed the other at first sight was odd enough in their case.

This was the first demon the angel had ever encountered... and possibly he was the first angel the demon had encountered. While he wasn't too sure about how things worked down below, upstairs the angels were given a clear order as to how to proceed if they ever came into contact with them. Discorporate them. Use holy water. They were the enemy after all. Even now, Aziraphale knew it was best. For them both. Though with his flaming sword gone, it would be easier said than done.

"What do they call you..?" The angel found himself asking, his blonde curls now completely soaked through and sticking to his forehead.

"Down there I mean. You all must have names..." He added, spinning the golden ring on his pinky.

The demon noticed the rain had soaked the angel wet and felt kind of weird to be shielded by someone who was taking all the rain for himself.

"Weren't we supposed to both not look like a total mess because, and I'm quoting, ‘we are not animals’?" He shot a slightly amused grin at him then slowly moved his thin index finger to move one of the angel's curls away from his forehead, up in between the rest of it which was soaking, his grin now more obvious.

"I'm Crawly." He said in a gentle and raspy tone.

With Crawly raising his hand towards Aziraphale, they couldn't help but flinch unexpectedly. Having expected to be hit or even flicked by the encroaching demon, quite taken aback to suddenly have a curl be tucked back and away from his vision.

Aziraphale glanced upwards as the demon retreated, as though he could see the now hidden curl. However, he simply turned back away, avoiding the demon’s serpentine gaze. Those yellow eyes seemingly looking into his very being, unable to help but feel exposed every time they made eye contact.

"Crawly..." The angel echoed, seemingly testing the name on his tongue.

Quite a tad on the nose, but no matter. A name was a name after all.

"Hmn. Yes, I suppose, but I can't very well shield myself from the rain. Not very flexible, I'm afraid." He finally answered, fluttering the still wing at his side to emphasize the inability to outstretch it over his own head.

"Besides, I merely meant it would be improper for us to be quarrelling in the mess and mud during such a storm. I'm quite sure I'll dry off soon enough. If this storm is to ever let up, that is. Would you have preferred I take my wing back?" He asked, folding his hands over his stomach as he only partially retracted his wing, almost like a tease or a threat to allow the demon to get as soaked as he. Crawly smiled a little at that. So there was a tiny bastard inside the guy.

"Well… it would be more in character." He agreed and let the angel move his wing away if he wished to.

"You know… I keep wondering if I did the right thing as well, by giving them knowledge of the two sides of things, you know. I could get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing." He chuckled slightly looking down a bit

"It would be funny… if I did the right thing and you did the bad one."

Despite the ever pouring rain, the angel merely returned his wing to its regular position. Opting to keep the demon shielded as the thunder began to slowly fade over the horizon, inching further and further away.

However, as Crawly began to speak, the angel couldn't help but glance over towards him. Only now noticing that when he looked too far to the left or right that a bit of white would appear in his sclera. Looking him over once more, more so with interest this time around considering his comments.

The angel couldn't help but chuckle a little at that, finding some solace in the fact that the demon was terrified of doing the RIGHT thing. It seemed silly at first glance, thinking that both the Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent of Eden had messed up their respective duties. However, it wasn't long before realization set in. Very quickly remembering what exactly happens to angels who disobey. Who end up doing the wrong thing.

"Oh - no." He quickly corrected himself, smile and laughter quickly fading as the angel seemed to grow anxious yet again.

"No, no, no it wouldn't be funny at all!" Aziraphale contradicted, pressing his lips together and looking away. Now a tad bit more on edge regarding his actions.

"I suppose not." Crawly sighed deeply then looked back at the angel.

"You should probably go and keep an eye on them. I would hate to see the product of my work go wasted." He slowly stretched his wing out, over the other's head, and moved his head closer to the angel's, blowing lightly at him, his breath hot but not as much as to burn, more cozy than anything. In an instant, Aziraphale was dry again.

"Oh-" The angel blurted out, quite a bit taken aback from the warmth. Instinctively shying away at first.

Truthfully, he at first expected hellfire to come from their maw. Engulfing him entirely and consuming him evermore, but instead, he merely found himself dry. The angel's cheeks heated, dusted over in a light pink once more although at this point in time he was fairly certain it was now due to the heat.

Aziraphale turned to look at Crawly, placing a gentle hand onto his cheek from the sudden warmth. Their curls more prominent now that the rain had been swept off of them. They took a moment to glance upwards, only now noticing that they had been shielded from the rain.

"Oh. Thank you... I suppose." Aziraphale muttered once more, still very much taken aback by the demon’s sudden kindness. Although, he felt as though he could more so equate it to watching an ocelot playing with their food before devouring them whole.

"Well. Um. Yes. Yes. That I should." They stuttered, stumbling over his words.

Another glance towards the skies showed that the sun was just beginning to peek its way through. The rain steadily became nothing but a light mist that blew among the wind.

Carefully, the angel took his wing back from up and over Crawly's head. Tenderly shaking off the water that had collected on it before tucking it back to his side, prompting Crawly to do the same.

"Well then... I... suppose I should be off." Excused the angel awkwardly, glancing off towards the sun that was beginning to set on the horizon.

"Don't want the happy couple to wander too far off to where I can't follow after all." He explained, hesitantly walking away from the demon and over to the edge of the wall.

For but a moment the angel turned back towards the redhead, lifting his chin slightly.

"I can't imagine the two shall travel far, and I’ll need to return to repair the damage done to the wall at some point or another. So Crawly, please... Try to stay out of trouble. Until I return at least." He teased, smiling faintly at the demon.

"My name is Aziraphale, by the way." He finally introduced, giving the demon one last glance over before allowing himself to slip off of the wall, opening his wings near the last moment to catch an upwards draft and head over the horizon to where the humans were last seen. The demon chuckled a little as he watched the angel go.

"Bastard." He declared softly and with a pairing soft grin.

He reached down from the wall, reentering the garden. If his suspicions turned out to be right, the garden had its days drawn. Of course, demons couldn't love, but whatever it was that Crawly felt for Eden, it sure seemed like it. Seeing it go forever would have been hard for him to swallow but it was not like he could tell anyone about his doubts, so he just took it as a chance to spend as much time in the garden as he could before the end of it.

There are few things certain in this world, but one of them had to be the way Crawly just knew they would meet again. As time went on and he, of course, had to leave the Garden as well to follow humanity rising, he couldn't help but to think that maybe they were linked somehow, maybe it was the fact that in most certainty, no angel had conversed with a demon-like they did, even after almost killing each other a few seconds prior. He couldn't explain to himself why he let the angel go, and he thought neither Aziraphale knew.

#fanfiction #good omens #Ineffable Husbands #good omens eden

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